


after my own he(art)

by cosmicpoet



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist!Akechi, Double Life, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Phantom Thief Akechi Goro, Slow Burn, Writer!Akira
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-14
Updated: 2020-03-12
Packaged: 2021-01-30 12:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 22,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21428308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmicpoet/pseuds/cosmicpoet
Summary: For some reason, this question throws Akira. Simply because Joker… looks like him. He’s Akira, if Akira wasn’t so flawed; he’s got the same curly black hair, the same thick glasses (only, Joker must wear contact lenses), the same gap between his front teeth. It seems all too pathetic to describe his ideal self to Akechi - from what Akira has seen so far, Akechi is perceptive, and he’d undeniably catch onto the character that Joker is evidently portraying.Akira is a writer. When his boss introduces him to comic book artist, Goro Akechi, he doesn't quite know how he's supposed to continue his story now that the whole thing is a two-player endeavour. And, perhaps, writing about his character 'Joker' will give him the confidence to confront the direction that his own life is taking.
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Amamiya Ren, Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira, Akechi Goro/Persona 5 Protagonist
Comments: 170
Kudos: 273
Collections: Shuake





	1. prologue: arsene

Akira hunches over his desk. He could have easily worked at home today, but he’s been doing that too often these days, and the last thing he’d want is to raise some kind of suspicion amongst his coworkers; instead, he just sips the strong coffee that he made ten minutes ago, stretching out his arms to try and alleviate some of his back pain. The pen that he grips tightly is running out of ink, but he can’t bring himself to stop writing - finally, he’s in the throes of inspiration, and he fears that if he stops for even a second, he’ll lose his motivation to carry on.

Joker wouldn’t feel this way. Akira stares at the page, the way Joker’s effortless heroism seeps into the air around him, and he almost hates himself for it, for being able to create a character who suffocates him in his own insecurity. They always say _write what you know, _but Akira knows nothing about saving people, as much as he wishes he could be the hero that he frequently pens into his journal. In truth, Joker is much more than the protagonist of the comic he’s writing, he’s the person that Akira wishes he could be - brave, daring, helpful to others, even if it comes at the cost of his own happiness. That kind of self-sacrifice cuts deeply into Akira’s own hero-complex, but there’s nothing he can do except keep writing, waiting for five ‘o clock to roll around so that he can go home and stare at the ceiling, hoping that he’ll be someone else in his dreams.

Still, he’s never been one to let his own depression stop him from writing, and he scribbles frantically across the page, mapping out dialogue between Joker and the villain of his story, a man wearing a full-face mask. He’s yet to decide on the name of the antagonist, but he knows that he resembles Akira’s own father more than he’d like to admit. _Write what you know, write what you know, write what you know._

His phone, beside him, buzzes with a text message.

**Sojiro Sakura, 14:01: **Not many customers today. Lots of leftover curry. Help yourself when you get home.

Akira smiles. Since he moved to Tokyo, he’s been living with a friend of his parents, occupying the space above a little cafe, rent-free. Sojiro told him, when he moved in, that he owed some kind of debt to his mother, but Akira is beginning to suspect that he’s just a lonely, middle-aged man who - after losing his girlfriend - needs all the company he can get. Akira feels sorry for him, knowing that the kind of company that _he _provides must be nothing more than a last resort.

Shaking himself out of his self-deprecating thoughts, he gets back to writing. In this scene, Joker is pulling off a heist in an art museum, stealing an original Da Vinci in order to blackmail the museum curator into admitting his fraud of other, lesser paintings. It’s not the strongest plot he’s ever come up with, but there’s something about the Phantom Thief Joker that carries any story with reckless grace. Still, it might not get published at all - he went out on a limb even pitching this comic to his boss, but he seemed to put some faith in Akira; now, he has to follow through on his promises of creating ‘the next best thing’, even if it means sacrificing his own mental health for the foreseeable future. 

And, speaking of getting the Joker comic into production, Akira looks up from his work to see his boss standing over him, observing his writing in a way that Akira finds himself a little more than uncomfortable with. But he’s never been one to complain, at least out loud, and so he simply sets his pen down and makes as much eye contact as he can without giving away the tiredness and sadness that show on his face when he doesn’t quite manage to conceal his emotions.

“Akira,” his boss says, “working hard on _Joker, _are you?”

“Yes,” he replies.

“Good. Because your idea has promise. In fact, it’s not something we want to keep on the back burner. So, I’d like you to meet your coworker,” he gestures to a man next to him, or, rather, standing a little behind him, a polite smile plastered on his face, “Goro Akechi.”

“Nice to meet you,” Akira says.

“Ah,” the man - _Akechi - _says, “it’s a pleasure.”

“Akechi is an artist,” his boss continues, “and I’ve contacted him to create the art for your comic. I’ve briefed him on how we work in this office, but I’ll leave it to you to tell him the details of _Joker _and what you expect from him.”

“I’m looking forward to working with you,” Akechi says, but his smile looks forced.

“Me too,” Akira replies. He’s not exactly about to tell Akechi that he prefers to work alone, and that he would rather the Joker comic remains a draft than be compromised as a two-person job. Instead, he just shakes Akechi’s hand and waits for his boss to leave.

Akechi takes a seat at Akira’s desk, instantly picking up some of the discarded drafts and looking over them. As much as Akira wants to justify himself, and tell Akechi that his scrapped ideas aren’t reflective of the final work, he finds that it’s easier to just be silent and let Akechi read over his work.

“Hmm,” Akechi says, after he’s read a few pages, “so your character - Joker - is a Phantom Thief?”

“That’s the idea,” Akira replies.

“I like that. It’s a premise that hasn’t been done right in almost a century. Would you mind giving me a few details of Joker’s appearance, and I’ll prepare some panel sketches?”

For some reason, this question throws Akira. Simply because Joker… looks like him. He’s Akira, if Akira wasn’t so flawed; he’s got the same curly black hair, the same thick glasses (only, Joker _must _wear contact lenses), the same gap between his front teeth. It seems all too pathetic to describe his ideal self to Akechi - from what Akira has seen so far, Akechi is perceptive, and he’d undeniably catch onto the character that Joker is evidently portraying.

“Ah,” Akira says, “I never really thought about it much.”

“Really?” Akechi replies, “I thought you’d have a solid picture in your mind of what Joker looks like. The way your - _our - _boss described this comic, it sounded like a true passion-project for you.”

“Well, it is. I just place more value on plot than appearance.”

“That may be quite troubling, considering that we’re producing this as a comic. Of course, I wouldn’t want to step on your toes during the artistic process. It’s your story, after all, I’m just here to draw.”

“Well, it’s yours, too,” Akira says, swallowing down his misplaced pride, “and we’ll both be equally credited.”

“I suppose you’re right. I’d ideally like to get some sketches drawn before the end of the week, and we can work from those, if you’d like. Perhaps we could even come up with a design for Joker together?”

“No,” Akira says, a little more abruptly than he’d intended.

“Ah, I apologise. Evidently, this story means something to you. Like I said, I’m just here to illustrate your vision.”

“Well, I suppose we could work together.”

“I understand your hesitation,” Akechi says, picking up a pencil and a spare piece of paper, “after all, letting people have a say over your dreams is… troubling. And I must admit, working in this environment does seem to dull my spirit. Forgive me if this is presumptuous, but would you like to accompany me for dinner after we finish? I think discussing our - I mean, _your_ \- comic in a more relaxed space might help the flow of ideas come more naturally.”

“I’m free. Actually, I live above a café, and my… the man who owns it just told me we have lots of leftover curry. You’re welcome to accompany me.”

“That sounds wonderful. I look forward to working with you. I’m sorry - our boss told me your name, but I’m afraid it’s slipped my mind.”

“Kurusu. Akira Kurusu.”

“Wonderful. I look forward to our later discussion, Kurusu.”


	2. mithra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akechi and Akira talk about the design of Joker.

Akechi, Akira thinks, is not the kind of man who knows when to take a hint. All day, he’s been keeping quiet, trying to get as much writing done as he can - because maybe he _does _have something to prove to this stranger who’s intruding on his personal idea - and Akechi has been looking over his shoulder, making positive comments that drip with falsity and fake pleasantry. The idea of having to go back to Leblanc, to his safe place, with his new coworker leaves him less than thrilled, but Akira would never actually _say _anything about that. After all, he’s been working on Joker for a year - he looks at the date, almost _exactly _a year - and it has crossed his mind several times that, having no discernible art skills himself, he would eventually have to make the choice between keeping his story as a dream in his mind, or sacrificing some of his control over the outcome in order to get it published.

Actually, that’s unfair. A false assault charge in high school left him a societal outcast, judged by everyone who knew his name before his face, and he’d be a hypocrite to draw the same kind of conclusion in regard to Akechi without getting to know him, first. It’s not _his _fault that their boss assigned him to work on Joker, and as far as Akira can tell, he’s just trying to make ends meet like everyone else in the office. Besides, he seems pleasant enough, and somewhat willing to take a backseat and let Akira’s vision guide him into producing art for the story, which should be more than enough.

Again, that little phrase, _write what you know, _echoes around Akira’s mind. Maybe that’s his downfall, isn’t it? He’s been far too invested in representing his own story that he never gave enough thought to the possibility that getting it published would be all too much like baring his soul. 

“Hm, did you hear me, Kurusu?” Akechi’s voice, soft and too close to him, brings him back to reality.

“Ah, I’m sorry. I didn’t.”

“It’s alright. You looked very focused. It’s quite inspiring, really, to watch the writing process at work. I merely said that it’s the end of the day, and I don’t mind staying if you want to get some extra work done, but I’m getting quite hungry and the promise of curry is sending me into an excited frenzy.”

God, he sounds so fake. If he wants to leave, he should just _go, _Akira isn’t stopping him. The least he could do is say what he means, instead of sitting on the fence between ‘I’m okay with staying’ and ‘I want to leave right now’. Still, Akira did promise him free curry, and he’s nothing if not a man of his word, so he stretches out his hands and, gathering up the papers across his desk, stands up.

“Sorry about that,” he says, “I lost track of time.”

And, looking at the clock, he sees that he really, _really _did. The office is practically empty by now; no doubt everyone else left at 5pm sharp, and it’s far closer to six than it is to the time that Akira (and, presumably, Akechi) should have clocked out. How long did Akechi sit there, hands folded in his lap, waiting for an opportunity to snap Akira out of his daydream?

And, more puzzlingly, _why?_

As they leave the building, Akira clutches his satchel closer to his body, the biting November wind harsh against his thin coat; looking over, he sees that Akechi is pulling a scarf out of his briefcase, and he makes a mental note to take a leaf out of his book and bring one tomorrow. But… he doesn’t particularly want to work tomorrow, all things considered, and he wonders if he can get away with a lie about feeling sick. Would that somehow let Akechi down? And why is he bothered about that?

He walks into the train station and glances over his shoulder to check that Akechi is following him.They scan their passes together, and Akira boards the train to Yongen-Jaya; it’s actually a blessing in disguise that he accidentally stayed later at work, because he’s missed the worst of rush hour, and there’s enough room for he and Akechi to sit down.

“Thank you for the invitation,” Akechi says.

“It’s nothing.”

“Living in, sorry, _above_ a café sounds… homely, I suppose. I fancy myself a bit of a coffee lover, so the situation would be ideal for me. What about you? Do you enjoy coffee?”

“I suppose,” Akira replies, “although I prefer making it than drinking it.”

“Perhaps you could make me one, when we get there. How long does the train usually take? Only, my apartment is the opposite direction, so I don’t frequently find myself in this area.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Ah, so we’re over halfway there.”

“I mean, twenty minutes from now,” Akira says, “it’s usually slow at this time. On a good day you can make it from here in fifteen.”

“Well, I don’t mind. Riding the train is a new experience for me, after all,” Akechi smiles, “since I’m used to biking everywhere. But I didn’t want to risk being late on my first day, so I took the train this morning. I must say, it’s more efficient than I’d expected!”

Akira rests his head against the window, watching the buildings blur past him. Nothing is slow enough to be distinct, and he feels empty at the thought of it all, trying to focus on something to hold onto at this time of year. It’s only in his mind, his writer’s imagination, but he sees Joker flitting across the rooftops, navigating fire escapes and jumping from building to building, his signature smirk elevated by the swiftness and fluidity of his movements. Joker is fast, he’s reckless and so distinct in his actions - it’s no wonder that Akira has to come to terms with his own story outliving him, in the end.

That’s what he wants. Or, it’s the most feasible dream that he can hold onto, because anything else will leave him hopelessly wishing.

As the train pulls into the station, he hears the intercom announce the destination. Akechi gets up before he does, and he has to unstick himself from the seat and sink his footsteps in time with the other man’s, departing the train. It’s only when Akechi stops that Akira realises he’s supposed to be leading them to Leblanc, and he mutters, “this way,” before taking off through the backstreets.

Leblanc has no customers, and Akira can see through the door that Sojiro is wiping down the counter, presumably waiting for him to arrive so that he can leave. The bell chimes as he enters, Akechi following close behind, and he waves a listless greeting before walking behind the counter.

“Hey, Soijro,” he says, “I brought a coworker back. Is it alright if we have some of that leftover curry?”

“Be my guest, kid,” Sojiro says, “stay as late as you want. What’s the special occasion? You’re normally tired when you get back.”

“We’re working on Joker.”

“You mean the project got the go-ahead from your boss?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m proud of you. Don’t work too hard though, alright? And who’s this?” Sojiro gestures to Akechi, standing a little awkwardly by the door, both hands clutching his briefcase close to his legs.

“I’m Akechi Goro,” Akechi says, walking over and extending his hand to shake Sojiro’s over the counter, “I’ve been assigned to work alongside Kurusu as the artist for the comic. I’m looking forward to being part of this project.”

“Hm,” Sojiro looks him up and down, “nice to meet’cha. Feel free to help yourself to curry and coffee whenever you’re here.”

“Well, working in the office is a little dull - not too great for creativity, if I may say so. It would be quite lovely to touch base in here every so often. I find that coffee shops and cafés really help my productivity.”

“As long as you ain’t disturbing my customers, feel free.”

“Thank you,” Akechi says, a pleasant, closed-mouth smile on his face.

“Well, I’ll be off,” Sojiro says, “don’t forget to lock up when you’re done.”

Akira nods in response, making his way into the kitchen and preparing two plates of curry and rice for himself and Akechi. As he sets the plates down, he remains behind the counter and Akechi takes a seat at the very end; he remembers how Akechi had said he likes coffee, and so he picks out a jar of _Blue Mountain _and begins to make a cup.

“How do you take your coffee?”

“Ah, thank you,” Akechi says preemptively, “I like it with cream and sugar, although I’ll drink anything.”

Akira notes that his first answer is most likely the truth, hidden behind the mask of not wanting to be a bother, and so he pours cream and sugar into the cup, setting it beside Akechi’s plate of curry and leaning over the counter, eating his own meal standing up.

“It’s almost like you work here,” Akechi laughs a little.

“If I wasn’t a writer, I think I would.”

“There are worse places to work. I like it here already. But you really live here?”

“Yeah, upstairs.”

“I suppose that’s more than efficient for making late-night coffee when you stay awake working. I’m sorry if that’s presumptuous, you just seem the type.”

“You’re not wrong. Although I don’t really need coffee to keep me awake.”

“Insomnia?” Akechi asks.

Akira has to stop himself from sarcastically answering, _“no, trauma,” _and instead he just nods.

He eats his curry in silence, as does Akechi, and when they’re finished, they move their plates to one side and Akira joins Akechi on the other side of the counter. He doesn’t quite know how to start the conversation about Joker, knowing that when he does, he’ll be surrendering all control over his own dream-world to someone else, so he just has to hope that Akechi will broach the subject first.

And he does, pulling a sketchbook and a case of expensive pencils out of his briefcase. “So,” he says, “should we start with a few rough sketches of what Joker should look like?”

“I suppose.”

“Do you have any designs in mind?” Akechi asks. And again, Akira feels the compulsion to lie - he’s barely even told Sojiro about the depths of what’s going on in his mind, and now he has to either open up his soul, or sacrifice his vision, because Akechi is working alongside him.

“Well, not exactly. But I’m sure if we talk about it, I’ll be able to pin down who… I mean, what Joker looks like.”

Akechi begins to sketch out a body-shot, something very simple in form, without hair or clothes or even facial features. It’s something so basic, and Akira knows that he’s hoping for more than vague answers so that he can finally get on with the work he’s been contracted to do; that’s all it is to Akechi - _contracted work - _it’s not personal in the same way it is to Akira.

“I think his hair should be wild,” Akechi says, “you know, to go alongside his personality? What do you think?”

“Yeah, we could try that,” Akira answers, silently thankful that Akechi isn’t straying too far from the true design of Joker just yet. He falls silent again, as Akechi sketches out wild wisps of hair, simply watching the pencil move fluidly across the page. For some reason, he’s semi-satisfied like this, and his eyes begin to lose focus as the clock winds on - he can still see the pencil scratching charcoal into something tangible, but he can’t for the life of him blink away the tiredness enough to see what Akechi is actually drawing.

When Akechi stops, Akira finds himself whipped back to reality, and he’s staring down at the page. What he’s looking at is… not Joker. It can’t be, because it looks far too much like a different character, something original, something worthy of publication. And Akira _hates it._

The man on the paper is wearing a full-face mask, as opposed to the light, thin eye-covering that Joker is supposed to be wearing, and the curves of his body are too in-your-face beneath the tight, striped leather suit that covers him from the neck downwards. 

“That’s…” Akira trails off.

“I apologise. I got a little carried away, and since you weren’t saying anything, I thought maybe you wanted me to just continue?”

“It’s… I mean, the art itself is great. Your style is exactly what I’m imagining for the comic, but…”

“But this isn’t Joker?” Akechi finishes.

“Yeah. I’m sorry,” Akira replies, “it’s my fault. I zoned out before I could tell you what I was thinking.”

“It’s alright. It’s not the harshest rejection I’ve ever experienced,” Akechi laughs, “and this business is a tough one. I don’t take things personally - in fact, I barely feel anything anymore when it comes to presenting my art!”

He says that last part with more lightheartedness than expected for such a heavy statement, and Akira almost wants to chastise him for it - how can he be so separated from his art that any critique at all doesn’t feel like a personal attack? But he says nothing, as usual.

“It’s getting a little late,” Akechi continues, “and I should head off before the last train. But here’s my email. Please, feel free to contact me with any ideas you have. I’m really looking forward to working with you.” 

He writes something on a piece of paper and slides it across the counter; it’s his email address, and Akira pockets it. Half of him wants to apologise for being so damn _hard _to work with, and the other half wants to go upstairs and curl up in bed, unsure of what he’s supposed to do next, now that his dreams are, supposedly, coming true. Instead, he just waves Akechi off as he exits Leblanc, standing alone behind the counter for a moment and taking a deep breath.

The type of exhaustion that overcomes him isn’t the kind that comes with tiredness. It’s a world-weary ache right down to the marrow of his bones, seeping into his core like poison; he locks the door and walks upstairs, peeling the shirt off his back and changing into a pair of comfy pyjamas that, admittedly, haven’t been washed in days.

His laptop is still on, but the screen is dark, and he has to turn the light in his bedroom on in order to navigate his way to the mattress that he calls a bed. Sojiro hadn’t given him anything more, at first, but now he has to practically beg Akira to let him buy him a proper bed. Every time, though, Akira refuses - he says that he’ll buy one himself when he has enough money, but really, he just likes the little bed that reminds him more of genuine care and a feeling of _home _than anything he’s ever had before. 

The bedroom is messy, clothes strewn across the floor and notebooks everywhere with uncapped pens holding the pages open. Sighing, he falls down onto his bed and watches the clock beside him tick onwards past 11pm, waiting for it to dawn on a new day. The moment it does, he closes his eyes and purses his lips, knowing exactly what day it is and what happened a year ago.

20th November. Damn it, he doesn’t want to be stuck in this liminality any more. He doesn’t want to _be this person _anymore.

Sleep would be a futile endeavour, so Akira gets up and trudges over to his desk, hitting random keys on his laptop until the screen lights up, after which he can put his password in. He hasn’t shut it down in weeks, and it opens on an old YouTube video of ‘calming music for cats to sleep to’, which he instantly closes. Morgana isn’t home yet, he’ll no doubt be out wandering the streets - he’ll be back before morning, like he always is.

Completely alone, now, Akira pulls up Pinterest and looks at the boards he’s made for his story so far. He can’t keep up the lie that he doesn’t have a design in mind, and he made the decision five minutes ago to finally take a stand for what he believes in - what’s the worst that can happen? Akechi laughs at him and calls Joker a self-insert? Well, it would be embarrassing, but it’s a lot better than compromising his own story to save face against someone who’s still practically a stranger to him.

Taking a deep breath, he creates a new board and titles it ‘Joker’.

It seems something like a reclamation of his own identity, and he’s having far too much fun adding inspirations for the design to his list. When he looks at the clock, over two hours have passed, and he’s surprised at himself for actually losing track of time on today of all days - the day that feels like the longest of the year for him. Smiling to himself, he copies the link and pastes it into a new email.

**<To akechigoro1997@gmail.com>**

_Hey, Akechi. It’s Akira. Sorry for emailing so late, but I feel a little bad that we didn’t get much work done today, on my account. I created a Pinterest board with some ideas for Joker’s design - I hope it helps._

[ _https://www.pinterest.co.uk/kurusu_akira/joker/_ ](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/kurusu_akira/joker/)

_I’ll see you at work, soon._

Then, he closes his laptop and goes to bed, hoping that he’ll be able to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the Pinterest link works :)


	3. obariyon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 20th November. The year anniversary.

_Akira is walking home. He stayed later at the office, wanting to write out some more drafts, and he must have lost track of the time, because it was nearing 7pm by the time he left. There was no point texting Sojiro, since Akira is sure that he’ll have already locked up the shop, and so he just took the train and patiently waited for it to dock in Yongen-Jaya. The backstreets don’t scare him - he’s walked them hundreds of times - and all he wants to do is get home and continue writing in his little moleskin notebook. Although he doesn’t have any solid ideas right now, he’s sure that inspiration will strike soon, and then he’ll be able to present a comic proposal to his boss, and everything will be okay again._

_Rounding the corner, he hears a vague sound in the distance; taking his headphones out, he stops in the middle of the alleyway and tries to listen, curious about what could be making such a clashing noise in the late hours of the night. When nothing else comes, he puts his headphones back on, and continues walking - it’s not long, now, until he reaches Leblanc, where a fresh bowl of curry will await him after an exhausting day at work._

_The night is so dark, he can barely see in front of him, but he’s sure that nothing bad will happen. Even though there’s been a string of attacks and robberies in Tokyo, Akira knows that the backstreets of Yongen-Jaya are so out of the way that nobody would bother trying to steal anything from a stranger wandering through them; at least, that’s the thought he holds onto, as his music plays at medium volume through his headphones and he counts the steps until he’s home._

_And then, everything goes wrong._

_Something - someone - jumps down off a fire escape right in front of him, sending him backwards in his own shock. He can barely compose himself before the man runs towards him and punches him squarely in the stomach, knocking him right down to the ground. He’s never been good at defending himself using anything but words, and he’s overwhelmed the moment the man descends on him; there’s more than one, he can see that much before his glasses are knocked off his face by a swift hit, and his head hits the pavement with enough force to make him see stars. He thought that was just a cliché - seeing stars, having the wind knocked out of him - but it’s painfully real, and he can barely move._

_Another blow lands against his windpipe, and he chokes for air that simply won’t come. He feels hands all around him, in his pockets, snatching his bag, pulling out his wallet and phone and - god - his notebook._

_“P-Please,” he stutters, “anything but that.”_

_All of his ideas are tucked away tightly within the pages, and losing them would mean losing a part of himself, letting go of every perfect sentence that he spent agonising hours constructing. He reaches out, trying to grab the notebook back from his attackers, but they shove him back down with a harsh kick, and he can’t move any more. They root through his bag again, making sure they haven’t left anything behind, before descending on him once more._

_That’s when Akira realises: these men plan to kill him._

_He braces himself for the next few hits, shielding his face with his hands. If he can just catch his breath for a moment, maybe he can spring up and run to safety, or at least run beyond the backstreets to a busy, populated area, where these men might fear detection. God, he just wants to be left alone. All of his ideas have been stolen, a fact which he cares far more about than the theft of his phone and wallet, perhaps even his life._

_More blows come, and he’s between the realms of consciousness and unconsciousness; he can feel the blood seep down his face, and his eyes begin to swell; he couldn’t identify his attackers, even if he wanted to. As he knows he’s fading, he feels a swift kick to his ribs, and he curls in on his side; it hurts to even cry, and so he doesn’t, he just lies there, like a child, waiting for it all to end._

_And then, there’s something else in the midst of all this chaos._

_Through the blood that disjoints his vision, Akira can just about see someone fending off his attackers. This man has a gun, and his face is obscured by a mask - he fires a few warning shots before, impatiently, shooting one of the men in the chest. He collapses, backwards, and Akira would gasp, if only he could breathe, as the men who seemed so indestructible only moments ago retreat into the shadows, leaving a trail of blood behind them._

_His saviour with a gun kneels next to him. Akira knows that he could just be another person wanting to mug him, but there’s something gentle about the way he graces his hands over Akira’s wounds, assessing the blood that sinks into his soft skin._

_“You’ll be alright,” the man says, monotone, “you need to get to a hospital, though.”_

_“I…” Akira gasps, “they took m-my…”_

_“I know. I’ll call for an ambulance.”_

_Akira shudders, feeling consciousness slip away from him already. The man kneeling beside him is obscured by moonlight and darkness, to the point that Akira can barely even tell that he’s there, but he’s holding Akira’s hand and dialling something into an outdated mobile phone._

_“They’re on their way,” he says, after a brief phone call._

_“Stay?” Akira asks. He feels helpless. But he’s in so much pain, and he’s worried that if he’s left alone, he’ll be attacked again, or the ambulance won’t arrive in time, and he’ll bleed out on the backstreets, and Sojiro will be left alone again._

_“Okay,” the man says, “but only for a little while.”_

_Somewhat satisfied, Akira grips his hand, and falls into blissful unconsciousness._

* * *

He wakes screaming. Morgana is desperately pawing at his chest, his claws almost drawing blood from the force with which they sink into Akira’s skin. When his breath seems to slow a little, Morgana eases off, eventually sitting on Akira’s stomach.

“Hey,” he says, “hey, Morgana, it was just a bad dream.”

In response, the cat paws up to his neck and curls up next to him, taking up over half the pillow. Morgana gives a soft _meow _and closes his eyes, getting as close to Akira as possible.

Akira leans over and rests his hand on Morgana’s fur, stroking him slowly up and down.

“I’m sorry for waking you,” he whispers, tears in his eyes that betray themselves in his voice. In response, Morgana just inches closer, like his presence can somehow protect Akira from the trauma of exactly a year ago. Slowly, he recognises that reality is _real, _and he lies next to Morgana, tears pricking into his eyes.

Feeling weak, Akira knows that he won’t be able to go back to sleep, and so he rolls over and takes his phone off the charger beside his bed.

There are a few social media notifications that he can ignore until the morning, and he checks his emails instead, not exactly knowing what he’s hoping for. The latest one came through a little after 3am; he checks his clock to see that it’s nearing six in the morning. Still bleary-eyed, he opens the message.

**<To ** **kurusuakira98@icloud.com** **>**

_Kurusu,_

_Thank you for your email. After browsing your Pinterest board, I think I have a better grasp on what Joker should look like. Would you like to reconvene in work tomorrow, and we can work on some sketches?_

_Best,  
Akechi Goro_

He sighs. There’s no way he’s making it into work in the morning. Of course, he could turn up late with some halfhearted excuse, but that would just make things even _more _awkward, and besides, if a man can’t take a sick day on the anniversary of his trauma, when _can _he?

Still, there’s some part of him that doesn’t want to let Akechi down, so the least he can do is email him back right away.

**<To ** **akechigoro1997@gmail.com** **>**

_Hi Akechi,_

_I’m feeling pretty sick, I’ve been up all night, so I don’t know if I’ll make it into work tomorrow. I’m sure it’s nothing more than me being over-tired, but would it be alright if we worked on the design in a few days? I think I’m going to recover at home today._

_Akira_

To his surprise, a reply from Akechi comes through less than five minutes later.

**<To ** **kurusuakira98@icloud.com** **>**

_Kurusu,_

_That’s more than alright! I heard that the flu is going around recently. There’s no rush to get back into work._

_Would you like me to bring you anything to Leblanc tomorrow? Your recovery is important to me, as your partner, after all._

_Get well soon!  
Akechi_

Akira rolls over in bed, too exhausted to reply. With Morgana’s warm, soft body against his, he closes his eyes again, hoping that sleep will be kind to him, this time.

When he wakes, it’s already dark outside. Panic overtakes him, as he worries about not having called in sick, and still having slept all day, but his weary eyes try to close again; he fights them, pulling his phone close to his face and turning the brightness all the way down.

There’s a text from his boss on his screen.

**Boss, 09:20: **Akechi informed me that you have the flu. Please consider this a paid absence.

He feels slightly better after reading that, dragging himself out of bed and into the shower. As the hot water seeps beyond the surface of his skin, he runs his hands over the scars of that night; although the bruises have faded, he still has white-pink marks across his stomach from surgery. He _hates _to look at them. And so he doesn’t.

The shower is quick and highly unsatisfying, and once he’s finished, he’s puts a fresh shirt and a pair of sweatpants on, trudging downstairs to see if Sojiro has left him any curry to curb the hunger permeating his stomach.

Downstairs, Leblanc is empty, save for one customer sat in the booth closest to the door. Sojiro is wiping down the tables, and he gives Akira a sad, small smile when he enters the ground floor of the café.

“Hey,” he mumbles.

“Hey, kid,” Sojiro answers, pointing to the only occupied booth, “you have a guest.”

Akira looks over to see Akechi, and he almost runs back upstairs, because _nobody _has seen him in this state before. His pyjamas, his dark circles, the red streaks around his eyes from the crying he did last night… it’s not something he exactly wants to present to a new coworker. But he’s already made eye contact, now, and backing away would be even _more _awkward, so all he can do is cross the café and sit opposite Akechi.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” Akira says.

“Well, I couldn’t really resist. Your Pinterest board gave me a lot of inspiration, so I stayed up last night drawing out some ideas for Joker. Would you like to see?”

“Sure.”

Akechi pulls out his sketchbook, flipping quickly past the page that holds the sketch he did yesterday. Now, Akira sees a whole new concept, and it looks exactly like Joker. His hair is wild and dark, and his black jacket flows behind him with all the grace and recklessness of someone who doesn’t care about the law. He notices that Akechi has used some soft coloured pencils to add dynamics to the sketch, and Joker’s red gloves fit perfectly against his slender hands, betraying the bitten nails underneath.

“Akechi,” he says, astounded, “these are… perfect.”

“Oh, thank you. I thought they’d merely be a second draft. I’m happy that you like them.”

Akechi flips to another page in his sketchbook, this time showing a different drawing altogether. It looks like Joker, only a lot softer, more _human. _He’s wearing thick glasses, hunched over some papers on a hastily drawn desk. Instead of his usual dark, long coat, he wears a cardigan, and his hair is tied back in a small ponytail.

“Is that…?”

“Yes. I mean… I thought we could work on what Joker would look like when he’s not out fighting crime. It’s a double life, right?”

“Well, yeah. I just never really thought that far ahead, you know? He looks… a lot like…”

“Like you?”

“I suppose.”

“Well, that was intentional,” Akechi laughs, “after all, who better to take inspiration from than the author himself? Of course, if it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll change the design completely, I -”

“No,” Akira cuts in, “I like it.”

“Ah, I’m glad. But that isn’t why I came here today. I was actually a little worried. Feeling sick in the winter months is a big deal, especially with superbugs and whatnot going around, so I brought you some soup.”

Akechi pulls out a tin of pre-made soup from his briefcase, and Akira has to stifle his laughter. If he really wanted soup - _if he really was sick - _he could have easily asked Sojiro to make him something homemade, with chicken broth and barley, but the kindness isn’t lost on him. After all, he barely knows Akechi, and there’s no reason for him to come to the other side of town just to bring him a tin of tomato soup.

“Well,” Sojiro interrupts his train of thought, “I’m going to head off.”

“Thanks,” Akira replies.

Once the door chimes shut, Akechi stands up. “So,” he says, “would you like some soup?”

Akira _is _quite hungry, and although he could easily go into the kitchen and prepare himself some curry, the promise of soup being brought to him _does _sound good, and so he nods. Akechi smiles, walking behind the counter and, with a cautious glance, he makes his way into the kitchen.

Alone on the café ground floor, Akira has some time to think. He wouldn’t bring soup to a strange coworker. Sure, he’d go above and beyond for Ryuji, or Ann, or Yusuke, or any of his other friends, but Akechi has no reason to be kind to him like this, and it makes Akira a little wary.

When Akechi reenters, Akira plasters a smile on his face and looks at the bowl of soup that Akechi has presented to him. It’s nothing important, just heated straight out of a tin, but it tastes as wonderful as processed food can, and he eats the whole lot. Finally having finished, he looks up at Akechi, who is simply staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“What do you do in your free time?” Akechi asks.

Akira wasn’t expecting that question, and he pretends to swallow the final gulp of soup, knowing full well that he finished a minute or so ago.

“Just because,” Akechi continues, “I noticed a chess board behind the counter. Do you play?”

“Not really. I mean, I’ve played a game or so, but I don’t really remember the rules.”

“It’s easy,” Akechi says, standing up to retrieve the chess board, “you’ll learn.”

Akira doesn’t think he has much of a choice in the matter, so he waits for Akechi to sit opposite him. 

Akechi makes the first move on the white pieces, moving his pawn forward two places. Akira wants to ask for advice, but this is so much _more _than that, and he uses what little knowledge he has to continue the game.

No more than ten minutes later, Akechi has Akira in the inevitable, inescapable checkmate, and he laughs a little at his victory. Akira smiles in his defeat, collecting his pieces and putting them back in the confines of the folding board.

“This was fun,” Akechi says, “perhaps Joker would win, sometime?”

And then, like the wind, he’s gone through the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy interrogation room day! And also my 21st birthday :)


	4. ame no uzume

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akira goes back into work.

There’s a surprising sense of newness that Akira feels the next morning, and it is by no means unwelcome. He feels like he’s _survived, _not only the attack, but the year afterwards; everything from this point onwards is something he’ll have already done before - quite possibly, the worst of it is officially over.

And, more than that, he’s happy to be working on Joker again. His ideas, as much as he claimed to be refining them, were stagnating for a year; finally, now, he’s been electric-shocked into action, and he’s learning to realise that this _is _what he wants. Sure, it’s scary to witness the change from a concept to a reality, but it’s a risk he absolutely has to take. It’s a risk that _Joker _would take.

Leblanc isn’t open to customers just yet, so there’s time for him to make himself a cup of coffee, needing the caffeine to power him through the work day. Sojiro will probably arriving in ten minutes or so, and Akira wipes down the counter and tables to make things easier for the day; he’s got a lot to thank Sojiro for, so it’s the least he can do. When he reaches the final booth, he notices a book on the table - it takes him a moment, in his bleary, semi-sleepy state to recognise it, but it’s undeniably Akechi’s. It even has the same marking as his briefcase: a monogrammed _‘A’ _symbol on the front.

He sits down for a moment, coffee in hand. Is it an invasion of privacy to look through some of his drawings? After all, Joker is _his_ character, surely taking a quick peek at some of the concept art again would help them both with their respective work?

Flipping the book open, he tells himself that he’ll skim straight through until he gets to the drawings of Joker, but the first page catches his eye instantly. What he notices first is how fluid Akechi’s style is - he doesn’t know much about art himself, but this drawing is a lot more rooted in realism than the comic-book style sketches he saw last night. It’s impressive, really, that Akechi can master so many styles, each with their own intricacies.

The drawing itself is of a dog, softly coloured gold in pencil. Even though it’s two-dimensional, it seems to come alive on the page; even just looking at it, Akira feels _safe, _like paper and graphite can somehow project some kind of animalistic loyalty into his life. Akechi’s art does that to him, he thinks. It must have taken him years to master.

Underneath the drawing, there’s Akechi’s signature - a little _‘A’ _in a circle, the same as on his sketchbook and briefcase - and a title: _Robin. _That must be the name of the dog.

Akira’s hands turn the pages without even thinking, looking at Akechi’s sketches of landscapes, of tiny people viewed from what he presumes is an apartment balcony, until he reaches the more recent drawings. There’s the initial sketch of Joker - or, rather, what Akechi drew before he understood what Joker is supposed to look like - and, on the next page, there’s… something that Akira hasn’t seen before.

Instead of the familiar Joker sketches that he was expecting, there’s a full-page drawing of what seems to be the counter of Leblanc. In the corner, the most detailed part of the piece stands out - it’s Akira himself, from the back, fussing over a coffee pot; obviously this was drawn after Akira brought Akechi back to Leblanc, but why? He’s hardly an inspiring muse.

Hastily, he flips the page over. It feels like some sick kind of voyeurism to view it any longer.

And then there are the Joker drawings, after which the sketchbook is filled with blank pages. He looks at his watch and sees that ten minutes have passed, a fact which is confirmed by the bell that chimes as Sojiro enters the café.

“Mornin’,” he says, and Akira smiles, “shouldn’t you be getting ready for work?”

“Yeah. I just,” Akira shuts the book and holds it tight, “had to pick this up. Akechi left it here last night.”

“Oh, yeah? It was pretty strange of him to show up like that. What did he want?”

“Nothing, really. I told him I was sick.”

“Ah. You doing alright, though?” Sojiro asks, putting his hand behind his head a little awkwardly. Neither of them have ever been very good at open emotional discussions, even despite the heroic effort on Sojiro’s part. “I mean, after yesterday.”

“Oh, that? Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah. Barely even registered that it was the 20th.”

“Well, alright, I suppose,” Sojiro says, tying his apron behind his waist, “you know you can talk to me if you need, right?”

“Thanks.”

He keeps Akechi’s sketchbook close on him, feeling his bag every five minutes on the train to check that it’s still in there. Even when he arrives at work, he - for some reason - can’t rest until it’s back safely in Akechi’s hands.

Walking into the office, he heads straight towards his desk with purpose; Akechi is already sat there, and Akira nods at him, a smile on his face.

“I’m glad to see you… feeling better,” Akechi says once Akira is sat down, “you didn’t miss much yesterday. But, I think I left my sketchbook at Leblanc last night - it doesn’t matter a great deal, but could you bring it in tomorrow if it’s not too much of an inconvenience?”

“I actually have it with me,” Akira replies, “I noticed uh, this morning before I left.”

“Oh, wonderful. Did you take a look inside?”

Akira isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to lie. Sure, Akechi brought him soup when he faked sick, and that was a nice thing to do, but he could be two-faced, using Akira and his stories to get ahead in the blood-in-the-water business of publication. Admitting that he looked through the entire thing could cause a rift between them, which is the last thing he wants in a professional environment like this - Joker is on the line, here. But then there’s the other end of it all, the fact that he just doesn’t _want _to lie to Akechi; it’s not in his nature to be unnecessarily deceitful.

“It’s alright that you did,” Akechi continues, seeing right through Akira even though he hasn’t even said anything yet, “I don’t mind.”

“Ah, sorry. I only wanted to look at the Joker sketches but… your art is really good.”

“Well, thank you. I have so many sketchbooks hanging around my apartment, it’s a shame that your first impression of my skills came from one of the less impressive ones. Still, I’m honoured that you like my art.”

“I like the first one, you know, the one you did of the dog? Is it yours?”

“Oh, Robin,” Akechi says, a fond, almost-nostalgic smile on his face, “he was my dog, yes. Not anymore.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. We all lose childhood pets, even if my circumstances were a little different.”

“How so?”

“Well, it was just my mother and I when I was young. My good-for-nothing father abandoned her when she found out she was pregnant with me. We had a good few years together, she was wonderful, but the scandal of being unmarried caught up to her, and the despair of it all finally killed her.”

“I’m so sorry,” Akira says, wondering if Akechi expects him to reciprocate in the sharing of personal details after he’s done with his story. There’s no way he’s doing _that, _so he just assumes his usual silent mask - people tell him he’s a good listener, after all. He’ll just have to keep deflecting until they have to do some actual work today.

“Obviously, I wouldn’t be accepted into orphanages with a dog, so I had to let him go. I took him out to the woods on one last walk, and then I ended up leaving him with a neighbour. Never saw him again.”

“Where did you get the name Robin from?”

“Robin Hood,” Akechi says, “I’ve always idolised heroes, especially ones that go against the law to pursue their own justice. Of course, I’m an upstanding citizen myself, but stories allow us to express our inner protagonist, don’t they? I suppose that’s why I feel so honoured to be working with you on Joker.”

“I get you.”

“I apologise for oversharing,” Akechi looks deeply at Akira, like he’s trying to commit something to memory, “you have kind eyes. I feel like I can trust you. Do you believe in fate?”

“I believe in making my own destiny.”

“Spoken like a true protagonist. I suppose that’s a no, then?”

“I never really gave it much thought,” Akira bites the nail on his thumb so deeply that the raw skin underneath stings a little, “but I suppose I don’t like the idea of my free will being toyed with. You know, like some kind of God is presiding over everything, pulling the strings to make things happen?”

“I think fate is rather different than that. I see it as something beautiful, like, you can make all your own choices, and you’ll end up where you’re supposed to be.”

“What about people who aren’t supposed to be anywhere?”

“Perhaps fate only bothers with the best of us.”

“Like you?” Akira says, a little sarcastically.

“I was thinking more along the lines of you. Or Joker. Or, you know, whatever. It’s just an interesting thing to think about.”

“Yeah.”

As they settle into their work for the day, comparing notes of their work on the comic, one image sticks in Akira’s mind. The drawing of Leblanc, of himself, from behind, and the overwhelming realisation that he exists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the week or so delay in updating! I'll try to write more, soon :)


	5. yatagarasu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akira gets a little closer to Akechi.

Akira notices a lot of things over the next week. Namely, a lot of things about _Akechi. _After all, they’re working in close quarters, so close in fact that Akira can ever so slightly smell the expensive aftershave that Akechi uses, whenever he leans over Akira’s shoulder to look at his writing, his hands on the desk, his back arched as he stands, feet slightly apart, making vague noises of approval every now and then. 

In fact, Akira could make a list of things that he knows now about Akechi:

_One; he ties up his hair into a loose ponytail when he’s concentrating. It’s cuter when he uses a pencil to hold it together. Not that Akira notices things like how cute his coworkers are._

_Two; it’s very rare that he gets to midday before taking his tie off and unbuttoning the top two - or three, if Akira is very lucky - buttons of his open shirt collar._

_Three; he wears contact lenses. Akira noticed the small ring around his eye when he was accidentally looking. Or when his eyes caught onto Akechi’s. Or, whatever._

He turns towards Akechi, now, watching him draw for a moment. It’s only been a week, but they’ve filled their now-shared desk with pinned-up concept art torn right out of Akechi’s sketchbook, scattered between the photos of his friends and Morgana that Akira has had surrounding him since he started working here. Even though Akira told Akechi that the space is shared now, and he’s more than welcome to put photos of his own up or bring little desk trinkets to make the place feel more like home, Akechi had simply smiled politely and declined.

So, it’s a strange position to see Akechi in, surrounded by things that are so evidently _Akira _in nature. Still, he’s not exactly complaining about it, and it shouldn’t even be something that he thinks about as much as he currently is. It’s only when Akechi moves his hand, swiftly and gently, to brush a strand of hair that’s fallen out of his ponytail out of his eyes, that Akira snaps out of his daydream and gets back to writing.

“Looking good,” he mutters, “…I like that sketch you’re working on.”

“Thank you,” Akechi says, keeping his eyes on his fluidly moving pencil, “I think after this, I’ll be ready to start storyboarding whenever you want to. Oh, look at the clock! It seems that I’m the one who’s gotten carried away this time. I suppose I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Yeah. We can work on that storyboard… if you like?”

“I’d like that a lot,” Akechi says, packing up his things methodically. He pauses, like he’s frozen in time, his pencil case still in his hand. It’s almost like he’s in some other world, waiting for an omnipresent God, or video game player, to choose his next dialogue option. “Actually, are you free right now?”

“Why?”

“Well, I find that having a break between office work and out-of-hours sketching helps refresh my mind. There’s a little jazz bar not far from here, it’s quite quaint. Would you care to accompany me?”

He’s so damn _formal. _Akira knows that there has to be something underneath, and maybe that’s why he’s so intrigued by him, but they’ve only known each other for a week - he’s got a feeling that it’ll take a lot more than that to even begin to understand Akechi.

That, right there, might just be his problem. _He wants to understand Akechi._

“Sure,” he replies, “lead the way.”

They end up outside a little bar, lit up in autumnal browns and oranges; the soft glow of lamplight lets them know that the place is open, and Akechi pushes the door aside, walking straight in and leaving Akira to catch onto it before it closes. 

“What’ll you have?” Akechi asks. Akira realises that he doesn’t go to bars often - Ryuji doesn’t drink, Yusuke can’t afford it most of the time, and Ann would much rather get some moscato and have a sleepover in the attic of Leblanc. When he drinks, he does it alone, a whiskey or two whilst he’s writing in his bedroom, sometimes a bottle of wine when nothing else will send him to sleep. What do people order at bars?

“Surprise me,” he smirks.

“Ah, I’ll try my best to impress you,” Akechi replies, turning to the bartender and pulling out his wallet, “good evening. I’d like a French 75 and… hmm… a Sidecar for my companion here, please.”

“Thank you,” Akira says.

They take the seats at the end of the room, where the music is soft, and it won’t be too hard to have an uninterrupted conversation. Akira notices the methodical way that Akechi drinks from the champagne glass, his lips parted just enough to let liquid pass smoothly through them like silk in some Spring wind.

“So,” Akira says, pulling his eyes away, “where did you work before coming to the office here?”

Akechi swallows a sip of his cocktail, maintaining eye contact as he puts the glass on the table and blinks, once, slowly. “I’ve been freelance my whole career.” He rolls his sleeves up to the elbow and rests his chin on one of his hands.

“Impressive.”

“Well, it’s quite nice not to be tied down by a consistent boss. It means I get to choose who I work with.”

“And you chose me?”

“Actually, I was contacted by your boss. Oh, don’t look so sad, Akira! I would have chosen you anyway,” Akechi says, and his tone doesn’t sound mocking, but Akira resents it anyway.

“I don’t look sad. This is just my face.”

“I was only teasing. How’s your drink?”

“Nice. You chose well.”

“Thank you. I’m rather acquainted with the jazz scene - I’ve liked the music since I was a child. I think that the art of cocktail making is an art in the same sense that my sketches are; you’re making something better out of simple ingredients. I suppose making coffee is similar. Which, by the way, I’m not sure if I told you - you’re very good at.”

“Thanks. I learned from the best.”

“The best being…?”

“The man who owns Leblanc, you remember him?”

“Ah, yes.”

“He’s like a father to me. And he taught me how to cook and make coffee.”

“That sounds wonderful. I’ve never had anyone teach me how to cook before.”

“What do you do for food, then?”

“Oh, you know,” Akechi laughs lightly, “frozen meals and the like. I quite enjoy picking up takeout sushi on the way home from work.”

“I could teach you. I mean… if you wanted.”

“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be any good. But, it might be nice to take you up on your offer. I fancy myself a quick learner. You’d have to promise that if I mess up, I’ll be able to eat some of _your _cooking instead.”

“It sounds like a deal. Are you free this weekend, then?”

“I have nothing in my schedule for Saturday. Shall we say… 5pm?”

“Sounds good to me,” Akira says.

Once they’ve finished their drinks, they part ways, leaving Akira feeling even more optimistic about the future of Joker. 

In the days leading up to Saturday, they get a lot of work done on the comic. The storyboard is coming along nicely, with Akechi’s dynamic art and Akira’s sharp writing complimenting each other like they were always meant to be together. By the time the weekend arrives, Akira feels satisfied with all they’ve accomplished so far.

He wakes early to the familiar feeling of Morgana pawing at his chest. “Alright, alright,” he murmurs, picking the cat up and putting him on the floor before getting out of bed himself. “I’ll get you some food.”

He puts a bowl of milk and some fatty tuna down on the ground, a peace-offering for what he’s about to tell Morgana. 

“Hey, so you’re going to have to scarper this afternoon. I have a guest.”

Morgana meows in response, which Akira is sure translates to _“You’re choosing someone over me?!” _in cat language.

“You can stay with Ann. I’m sure she won’t mind.”

Sometimes, Akira swears that Morgana can understand human language, either that or he’s trained himself to pick up on the word ‘Ann’ in excitement, because he seems to perk up a lot after hearing this.

Still, there’s a lot of time before Akechi arrives, and Akira opens his over-the-shoulder bag for Morgana to hop in. For some reason, Morgana really enjoys coming shopping with Akira, and as long as he stays quiet and doesn’t get noticed, Akira is happy to oblige. They’re only going to buy ingredients, anyway, and there’s a little grocery store in the backstreets that Sojiro showed him when he started to get serious about cooking.

He browses the spice aisles, picking out his favourites. He thinks he’ll make curry with Akechi, if only because it’s his signature dish, and he likes the idea of being able to show off a little, maybe even impress Akechi somewhat.

When he gets back, Leblanc is full of chatter and laughter. He sees his friends - Ryuji, Ann, and Futaba, sitting in one of the booths, like they’re waiting for him to arrive. _God,_ they’re not subtle, and he loves them for it; of course they weren’t going to come round and overwhelm him on the 20th, but it’s obvious that they want to check on him. Sojiro stands behind the counter, lethargic from lack of customers, as Akira walks inside.

“Hey, guys,” he says.

“What’s _up!” _Ryuji shouts, far too energetic for pre-midday.

“Yusuke wanted to come but he’s really busy with his scholarship and everything, so we told him we’d say hi on his behalf. How are you holding up?” Ann asks.

“Oh, you know, I’m doing good.”

“What’s in the bag?” Futaba says, jumping up and peering inside. “Did Sojiro make you do his shopping again?”

“No, actually. I’ve invited a coworker round to cook with me tonight.”

“What?” Ann says, excitedly. “Who are they?”

“Just a guy who’s working on Joker with me.”

“A _guy,” _Ryuji says, nudging Akira with his elbow, “just any guy, or a _special guy?”_

“Just an artist I’m working with. Nothing more.”

“An artist who you’ve invited round for food? Hmm,” Futaba smirks, the same smile that he notices on himself, on Sojiro - they’re an unconventional family, but he’s so glad he has them.

“What’s his name?” Ann asks.

“Uh… it’s Akechi.”

“First name?”

“Goro.”

“On it,” Futaba says, “pulling up his profile now. Oh, Akira, you’re in _deep. _He looks like just your type! God, wait, he’s got a _food blog?”_

“I… didn’t know that,” Akira says.

“Oh my god, what if he reviews Leblanc?” Ryuji laughs. 

“He already _has,” _Futaba laughs with absolute glee, “oh my god. Oh my god, this is golden. Wait, let me read it.”

“No, Futaba!” Akira pleads, but she jumps up on the table and holds her phone out of reach.

Putting on a mocking deep voice, she reads Akechi’s blog post out loud. “I had the pleasure of visiting _Café Leblanc _today after being invited by a coworker. The atmosphere is well suited to conversation, especially with someone whom you’re recently getting to know! The curry is perfectly flavoured, with a spice blend that I’m sure is a trade secret, however I have to say that my personal highlight is the coffee. I had the pleasure of trying the _Blue Mountain _blend which, with cream and sugar, complimented the curry to perfection. 5/5 stars.”

“Stop it,” Ann whines, “I’m getting second hand embarrassment from seeing Akira blush so hard!”

“What, it’s not like Akira has a crush on this guy, right?” Ryuji says. _“Right?”_

“Oh, my god,” Futaba taunts, “he totally _does!”_

“I don’t!”

“Oh yeah, he’s got a crush on Joker,” Ann points a finger at him, taking one of his curls in her hand and twisting it the way she does when she’s jokingly messing with him.

“Nah, he doesn’t have a crush on Joker,” Futaba says, “he kins him. Totally different.”

“Futaba,” Akira sighs, “please stop making internet jokes that I don’t understand. You’re making me feel like Sojiro.”

“Whateverrrr. What time is your boyfriend coming round?”

“Jesus, Futaba. I’ve known him a week. And I don’t… even like him like that! It’s purely professional.”

“Professional enough that you’re inviting him round for dinner?” Ann asks.

“Look, we have to work on Joker in our free time, too. It’s really nothing. Besides, I don’t even want a relationship.”

“Alright, I won’t push!”

“I did need to ask a favour, though,” Akira says, “can you take Morgana tonight?”

“Sure,” Ann replies.

“Thank you.”

They sit together for a few hours, drinking coffee and laughing. The weight of the world, for once, seems to be off Akira’s shoulders, and he truly enjoys spending time with his friends. When 4pm rolls around, he’s almost sad that they’re leaving, but he realises _why _they’re going and perks up a little - he won’t be alone, he’ll just be with a different… _friend._

Ann scoops up Morgana and gives Akira a kiss on the cheek. “I want all the gory details afterwards, ‘kay?”

“Fine, I’ll text you,” he smiles at her, waving goodbye to the group as they exit Leblanc. Sojiro leaves, too, giving him privacy enough to prepare for Akechi’s visit.

He waits for an hour, anxiously wiping down the counters and getting all the ingredients out in the kitchen. When the door bell chimes at exactly 5pm, he jumps up, almost dropping the pot that he was wiping clean, before he walks out to the front and sees Akechi.

He’s not exactly dressed for cooking. He’s wearing a long, tan coat, with an expensive-looking scarf and leather gloves. Underneath, he’s got his usual button up shirt on, coupled with a tight pair of fitted pants. It all contrasts Akira’s jeans and t-shirt that he’s been wearing all day, and he feels a little underdressed, even though all signs point to Akechi being _overdressed _for the occasion.

“Thank you for having me,” Akechi says.

“It’s my pleasure. Just come round back and we can start.”

“I bought this today,” Akechi reaches into his briefcase and pulls out an apron, “should I put it on?”

“Uh, yeah, sure. I’ll… put mine on.”

Truthfully, Akira doesn’t often wear an apron, but he’s not about to make Akechi feel awkward, especially after he spent money on their… well, what do you call it? Date? Certainly not. He fastens his apron behind his back and goes into the kitchen as Akechi follows him.

As he teaches Akechi basic knife skills, chopping chicken thighs and adding them to a pan of sautéed onions and garlic, he wonders if Akechi is even taking in any of this information. After all, they’re working in close proximity, and he doesn’t know why _he’s _feeling so flustered, which makes him question whether Akechi is feeling at all the same. Especially when Akechi is left to brown the chicken before they add the stock, grated apple, and vegetables, and Akira just happens to find himself standing close behind, his hands gracing gently over Akechi’s as he guides him into making figure-of-eights with the wooden spoon in the pan.

“That’s it,” he says, softly, gently, “you’re doing perfectly.”

“Thank you,” Akechi laughs, “it’s a little harder than you make it out to be! How do you not burn the chicken?”

“Just keep stirring, there you go, that’s it,” Akira says, his hands still warm on top of Akechi’s, “wonderful.”

“What do we do next?”

“It’s time to add the liquid ingredients so we can let it simmer, and then we can make the roux.”

Akira pours the water and chicken stock into the pan, letting Akechi add the carrots, potatoes, and grated apple. He picks up a bay leaf from the counter and holds Akechi’s hand, opening it out to place the leaf lightly on his palm.

“Crush it up a little,” he says, “the flavour gets out better that way.”

Akechi looks like he’s searching for validation in Akira’s eyes as he closes his hand over the bay leaf and squeezes it underneath his slender fingers, adding it to the pot. When Akira puts a lid on it and turns the heat down to a simmer, he watches Akechi wipe his forehead and lean against the counter.

“You ready to make the roux?”

“It sounds hard,” Akechi says, his voice almost a purr, “will you show me?”

“Of course. It’s not as hard as it sounds. You just need flour and butter and spices. What spices do you like?”

“Ah, I don’t really know.”

“Well, I usually use garam masala and turmeric as the main ones. Cinnamon can give it unique flavour, and obviously you have to use cayenne pepper to get the spice to really shine. Fenugreek and fennel help out with the complex flavour profile, too. What are your thoughts on allspice?”

“I trust your cooking expertise.”

Akira shows Akechi how to grind the non-powdered spices, like the fennel seeds, in a pestle and mortar. Mixing them with the flour, Akira melts some butter in a pan and then turns to Akechi.

“Do the honours,” he says, “just add it in. Keep stirring until the flour has absorbed all the butter.”

“I… I’ll try.”

Akira is almost impressed by how Akechi throws himself into the task at hand, mixing the roux together until it forms a thick paste. Once the stock has finished simmering, he teaches him how to add the roux in slowly; all at once, and it will clump up and ruin the texture, so the process involves a lot of Akira placing his hands over Akechi’s and teaching him how to mix it in properly. 

And then, they’re finished. Akira’s palms feel cold when he pulls away from Akechi, and all that’s left is to add a few dark chocolate chips and a little bit of Greek yoghurt, before the curry is ready. They’ve had rice cooking on the back burner for twenty minutes, and Akira serves it up onto two plates whilst Akechi watches.

Soon enough, they’re sitting together in the end booth, eating curry with smiles on their faces. There’s nothing to be said.

Akira just watches the way the moonlight, trickling through the door, seeps onto Akechi’s face, and he wonders what it would be like to be in love.

Because he’s not. He can’t be.

That’s it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't stop thinking about business casual Akechi, I was talking about him to anyone who'd listen... I love his fashion sense so much.


	6. nebiros

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something happens again.

“And that’s all we have so far,” Akira says, watching intently for any sign of recognition in his boss’ eyes. The draft of the first chapter of Joker sits on his desk, well-thumbed and slightly inky, waiting for the recognition that it’s always deserved, all along.

“It’s coming along well,” his boss replies, pushing the pages back towards Akira, “you’re close to publication. Clean it up a little, and then we can talk about getting it into print.”

“Thank you,” Akira replies. Akechi stands a little behind him, silently, and when Akira looks over his shoulder, he sees that the other man is smiling in recognition. They exchange a quick glance before exiting the room.

Once they’re out of sight of their boss, Akira breaks out into an uncontrollable smile that says _‘we did it’. _Akechi looks a little sad, but perhaps that’s just because Akira doesn’t quite know him intimately, and he won’t question it; they just walk back to their desk, ready to spend the rest of the day working hard to finalise the first copy of Joker.

“I’ll have to leave a little early today,” Akechi says, “I’m sorry. I have… obligations.”

“Oh,” Akira replies.

“We’re making great headway, though. I can do some extra work tonight so we don’t fall behind. I have your email, after all.”

“No, it’s fine. Have a day off,” Akira says, biting down the urge to grit his teeth. Joker isn’t a passion project for Akechi, so of _course _he’d take sick days and go home early - there isn’t anything riding on the publication of a dream for him, so why would Akira ever expect otherwise? He feels bitter. Sure, Akechi brought him soup, and perfected the design for Joker, but that doesn’t make him any different to anyone else. Even if he still draws his childhood pet, or pens a sketch of Akira in Leblanc… it doesn’t make him a person that Akira can rely on.

“Thank you,” Akechi says, his voice pleasant and fake as ever. Akira has to stop himself from spitting out a sarcastic _thank you, _before Akechi gets up and leaves before the clock can even tick over to 4pm.

It shouldn’t be such a big deal, Akechi leaving an hour early.

So why is Akira so bothered?

He spends the next hour flitting between making vague notes that he’ll never use, and doodling on his notebook. His sketches are nothing like Akechi’s, they’re not refined, or even _good, _but it’s all he can do to pass the time until he leaves the office when the work day is over, his bag slung lazily over his shoulder.

The train journey is uneventful, if a little slow. He has his headphones in the entire way, one of his inspirational Joker playlists ringing in his ears even as he departs the train and starts to walk down the backstreets towards Leblanc. When he hears a noise in the distance, his heartbeat quickens, and he takes his headphones out almost immediately, snapping his head around to try and locate the noise - but he sees nothing. The backstreets are dark and cold, and the only coherent sound is the light rain hitting the pavement.

Akira pulls his hood above his head and quickens his pace. He hates that fear is pricking in his chest, but he can’t exactly help it. The quicker he gets home, the better.

And then, just like it happened a year ago, he’s forcibly stopped in his tracks by two men. They’re much bigger than him, all muscle and sweat and heavy breathing, forcing him to step backwards as his breath hitches in his throat. It can’t happen again, _surely, _he thinks, as he clutches his bag close to his chest and tries to run. 

But his legs won’t move. He’s frozen to the ground, again.

Suddenly, all he can think about is Joker. This beautiful man, a man of his own creation, who doesn’t fear danger or risk, who smirks in the face of adversity - it’s the man he wants to be. Akira steels himself, shoving his hands out in front of his face and balling them into fists. Sure, he’s at a disadvantage, but he has to fight. If he’s learned anything in the past year, it’s the value of bravery, and there’s no point creating a character like Joker without learning a thing or two about what it means to defend everything you stand for.

“Get back,” Akira says, his voice piercing through the blackness of the night.

“Don’t put up a fight, kid,” one of the men says, “‘cause it’s a pain for us to have to hurt you. Just hand over the bag and we’ll be on our way.”

“No!”

“Don’t make this difficult,” the other man says.

“I won’t surrender to you,” Akira spits. His voice should be shaking, considering how terrified he feels, but something within him won’t let him show any sign of weakness to his could-be attackers. Instead, he widens his stance and keeps his fists raised, ready to defend himself. 

But the opportunity never comes.

Another man approaches from behind, taking the men by surprise. He slams their heads together, stunning them enough for Akira’s saviour to lord over them - _oh, how pathetic to see it this way - _giving Akira chance to run away. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, watching, as the man handcuffs the attackers together and stuns them with some kind of taser-gun, until they’re convulsing and breathing heavily on the floor. 

The streetlights aren’t very good at illuminating anything, so Akira has to wait for the man to step forward to get a good glimpse of him. He’s wearing a head-to-toe outfit, seemingly leather, with blue and black stripes across his body. A full-face mask obscures any recognisable details of who he is, but Akira can at least see that he has kind eyes, and he seems to be smiling as he steps forward, his hands raised and visible as if to say _“hey, I’m not here to hurt you.”_

“Hello,” Akira says.

“We meet again,” the man replies.

“Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter. They didn’t take anything from you, did they?”

“No.”

“Good. Keep your bag close to you. Go home, Akira.”

“How do you know my name?”

“That doesn’t matter, either. Do you need an escort back to your house?”

“No. No, I’m fine.”

“They might have backup. You could get ambushed again before you’re safe.”

“I said I’m _fine.”_

“Okay.”

Akira, simultaneously enamoured and terrified, turns on his heel and runs. After a few minutes, his chest burns, and he wants nothing more than to get back to Leblanc and pour himself a generously large glass of whiskey and pretend that this is only a bad dream. Finally, he reaches the café, slamming the door behind him and locking it.

He checks three times that the door can’t be opened without the key before he goes upstairs.

Morgana waits on his bed. He looks impatient, and Akira has to put himself on autopilot to feed the cat and change into his sweatpants.

Sitting on his bed, he checks his bag to see that everything is still in there. His phone, wallet, keys, and, most importantly, his notebook.

As he looks out of the window of his attic bedroom, he swears that he can see a figure sitting on the rooftop opposite him, just watching with an invisible, impenetrable gaze, just like a crow guarding something in the nighttime.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently remade my twitter account, and I also made a tumblr and instagram, so if you want to come and chat to me, here's where you can find me.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/64kit) / [tumblr](https://64kit.tumblr.com/) / [instagram](https://www.instagram.com/64kits/)


	7. decarabia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akira chases after what he wants.

He’s sure of it: he’s sick of passivity. Namely, his own, which is rooted far too much in the anxiety that he’s _supposed _to be overcoming. And right now, his gaze is fixed on the shape in the distance, and as it becomes something tangible, Akira finds that it’s harder and harder to blink; here he is - _Joker - _or at least the inspiration for him, in the flesh. There was always a slight indication of self-doubt, perhaps even _wishing_, that there was never a masked saviour, that Akira had simply blacked out and saved himself, that Joker came from somewhere within himself, but this is real. He pushes the window open and calls out, and the figure, almost like a startled bird, jumps down behind the rooftop and is gone.

If this were any other day, if Akira lacked the self-belief that he’s consistently, now, trying to renew within himself, he might have left it there. But he knows that it’s time for Joker to meet, well, _Joker, _and he shoves his feet into his shoes and leaves Leblanc, running through the backstreets again towards the direction of the masked man.

There isn’t anything that would indicate the presence of anyone else, but he keeps walking until he’s completely directionless, and even then he won’t give up. Putting his ear to the brisk wind, he strains to see if there’s anything he can hear - only the night-birds and the distant sounds of cars, until there’s a loud crack, like something hitting a brick wall, _hard. _He follows his instincts and chases the noise until he emerges in an alleyway and sees the same men from before, alongside the masked vigilante, except this time the bad guys have the upper hand. It’s almost comical - _literally, _it’s framed like a scene that he would write - but it’s evident that the man in the blue and black suit is in pain. The way his stance is guarded and beckoning all at once, like he can’t back down from a challenge even at the cost of his own life, makes him look beautiful. Free. Like a bird.

That’s what he is. He’s not Joker. He’s a crow. _Akira’s _crow.

Impulsively, he has to save him.

“Hey!” Akira shouts, getting the attention of the three figures; they turn around, illuminated by the streetlights like the protagonist and villains in some kind of cheesy, cliché detective story. When they begin to advance on him, he steels himself and puts his fists up - he doesn’t know how to fight, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t at least _try._

Before he can, though, the sound of an explosion knocks him almost off his feet, and then another one that sends him backwards into the wall. It’s like all the breath in his lungs spits itself out of his mouth, and he’s got a popped balloon for a chest, so all he can do is stare at the bodies on the floor.

Things, in the wrong order, start to fit into place.

The attackers are dead. His Crow shot a gun. Did he shoot them? Did he kill them? Is Akira’s Crow a murderer?

But surely he’s not too trigger-happy. It has to be a last resort, even though their backs were turned, even though he could have taken them down with a non-fatal shot; surely he can’t _enjoy_ this. Then again, why else would someone don a mask and take to the streets to enact vigilante justice if they didn’t _want to? _Phantom thieves typically don’t get paid, and there’s no fame involved for a life shrouded in mystery, so why would his Crow pull a gun on two men if he didn’t enjoy it?

No, Akira is thinking about it too much like a helpless victim. They were people, of course, but they were bad people who surely would have done the same thing if they had the upper hand, right. Right? But they _did _have the upper hand, at least for a bit, so which side do the scales of justice and mercy really bend on, this time? And he must be selfish for being this conflicted, because twice now, Crow has saved his life, so it’s awful to even _think _of siding with the bad guys.

Akira just wants to be at his desk. All he can do is write, and it’s so much easier to separate the bad guys from the good if it’s fiction, if you’re not personally involved, if you’re not trying to be a pathetic imitation of your own protagonist. He feels a lot more like a background character in one of his own stories, lacking conviction enough to choose which side, if any, he’s supposed to be fighting for.

“You killed them,” he says. The words come out like the final wisps of air that he’s yet to breathe back in, unintentional and sharp.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“To send a message.”

Akira was hoping he’d say that there was no other choice, that it was self-defence, that it was anything redeemable. But these two lives were lost because Crow needed to send a message to someone, and Akira doesn’t know who, and he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to be okay with that because _Joker doesn’t kill. _And if everything is based on a lie, then is there anything left in this world worth believing in, worth fighting for?

“To who?” Akira asks, his voice steady.

“You don’t need to know.”

“I _do. _I’m involved now. Getting attacked once could have been coincidence, but twice?”

“The less you know, the better.”

“Bullshit. I need to be prepared.”

“What you _need_ is to pretend that you never saw any of this.”

“And how the hell am I supposed to do that?”

“Forget me.”

“Crow,” Akira breathes, unconsciously taking a step forward. Crow matches this by taking a step back, like he’s scared of something, but his hands are still loose by his sides. 

“What did you call me?”

“Crow. It’s, uh… well, what _is _your name?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You got a codename?”

“No. Well, I guess I do now. _Crow. _I like it. Hope I don’t catch you around, _Joker.”_

Akira can’t even register the name before Crow jumps up onto the fire escape and heads for the rooftop. Determined to find out how he knows as much as he does, Akira follows, making good headway in catching up - Crow was faster last time, much faster, his exhaustion must be slowing him down. Or he’s hurt.

Akira hopes that he isn’t hurt. 

When he’s an inch away from Crow, he grabs onto his arm and whips him around; they’re standing in the middle of the fire escape, like they’re trying to climb all the way into the sky, and he won’t let go because he’s _so close _to finding out what all of this is supposed to have been for.

“Who _are _you?”

“I’m Crow,” he says, “you should know. You chose the name.”

“But who are you really?”

“Nobody. I don’t exist, Akira.”

“Why did you call me Joker?”

“I… I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you what I know, or why I know it, or what I’m trying to do. Look, you saw me kill those guys. I did it for you, and that’s something you’re going to have to come to terms with, but don’t pursue me. Don’t follow me. The more involved you are, the more you’ll get hurt.”

“And what about _you?”_

“I can handle it.”

“Well, so can I!”

“No, Akira. You can’t fight. You can barely run without slowing after five minutes. You’re smart, yeah, but you’re better behind a desk than, you know, fighting crime.”

That one _really _hurts. Here he is, standing face-to-mask with his inspiration, hearing that he’s not worth anything as a person; hell, if they found a way to extract all the money-making stories from his brain, he wouldn’t even be loved by anyone any more. Stunned into silence, he just lets Crow leave, and he can’t even follow him - he’s simply stuck to the steps of the fire escape, tears spilling over his eyes and down his cheeks.

As a last ditch effort, he shouts after him. “I know your voice!”

“Yeah,” Crow shouts back, lazily, like their back-and-forth is amusing to him, “you’ve heard it before.”

_Heard it before. _Sure, he heard Crow speak after the attacks, but it didn’t sound like he meant it that way. It sounded more… intimate.

He doesn’t have time to place the familiar speech before he’s distracted by something soft rubbing at his leg, and he looks down to see Morgana. The cat meows once he knows he has Akira’s attention, and by the time he’s been picked up, Akira has forgotten just enough of Crow’s voice that he has no chance of placing it.

“Hey,” he says to Morgana, “did you come looking for me?”

Morgana purrs.

“Aww, you’ve got my back. You’re a good cat, aren’t you? Yes you are, _yes you are,” _Akira talks in the same voice that he would use to talk to a baby, stroking Morgana as he starts to walk down the steps until he’s on the ground again.

His heart stops when he sees the bodies on the floor. In the chaos of everything, he almost forgot that he saw two men die tonight, which makes him a witness. An accomplice, an accessory, if he doesn’t come forward to the police, even though he knows now that there’s no question about his own silence. For some reason, he feels a connection to Crow, and he’ll keep his secrets for him since it’s the only helpful thing he can do. It’s all he’s good for. 

The cold only hits him once he’s back in the warmth of Leblanc and his face stings from the temperature transition. Still, he can’t get comfortable in bed, and sleep doesn’t come at all. He’s too worried - what if the police show up at his door and question him about the murders? What if Crow gets arrested, and Akira gets killed because he’s lost the protector he’s too ashamed to have in the first place?

Morgana curls up into his arms and Akira is thankful that at least the damn cat can sleep. He waits for hours, running through every worst-case scenario in his head until the anxiety feels like vomit in his throat, and he just _has _to go and check that it’s all real, that it really happened, that there’s a genuine danger for both himself and Crow.

He kisses Morgana softly on the head before leaving, taking a coat with him this time. This isn’t a calm nighttime walk - he’s on his way to a murder scene, to check whether there are still two bodies growing cold on the concrete. As he approaches the alleyway, he tries to hide himself around the corner, only peering out when he’s built up the courage to stare death in the face.

What he sees is something even stranger.

Yes, the bodies are still there, but there are other people, now. Akira panics for a second, thinking that it’s the police, but there aren’t any sirens or lights, and these people aren’t wearing uniforms - they’re dressed in shroud-black clothes, with masks covering their mouths and dark sunglasses to obscure their features, and they pick up the bodies loosely by the ankles instead of assessing the crime scene or even putting them on a stretcher. The final nail in the not-quite-metaphorical coffin is the way they throw - literally, _throw - _the bodies into the back of an SUV like they’re sacks of potatoes and not the corpses of the recently deceased.

The men look around, and Akira hides himself behind the wall, clasping a hand over his mouth. He daren’t even breathe. He hears their footsteps getting closer, and he can almost feel the heat radiating off their bodies, ready to swallow him whole. Will they throw him into the back of the SUV too, or will they just kill him here and leave his body for any animal that comes across it? Will Sojiro ever know what has happened to him, or will he spend the rest of his life waiting for Akira to come home, not knowing that he was stupid enough to put himself in this situation in the first place? He thinks about Ryuji, about Futaba, about Ann and Yusuke and Morgana and even his parents, and what they will all do after he’s gone.

Suddenly, a voice pierces through the night, making Akira turn his head sharply towards the rooftop. 

“Nice little cleanup operation you’ve got going!”

It’s Crow. He’s sitting on the rooftop, feet dangling over the edge, leaning back and supporting himself with his arm in the most jarringly casual pose Akira could possibly imagine in this situation. He swings his legs back and forth as he twirls his gun around his finger; Akira can only hope that the damn safety is on, or that Crow at least knows what he’s doing. If his cockiness got him killed, it would be a tragedy all round. 

He jumps down onto the fire escape, swinging himself over the bars to each new set of stairs instead of walking down the steps like any normal person would. When he saunters over to the men, Akira notices himself biting his lip, and he wonders why now, of all times, he’s wondering what it would be like to kiss away the potential blood on Crow’s face. 

“Go on, finish your cleanup, I’m not stopping you,” Crow says, a smirk evident in his voice. He points the gun at the men, warning them not to try anything. Strangely enough, they comply, like they’re experts at choosing their battles, and this one is a losing fight. Once they drive off, Crow doesn’t even look over his shoulder towards Akira before talking in a low, beckoning voice.

“You just can’t quit, can you? Oh, come out, I know you’re there, _honey.”_

It’s patronising. It’s sarcastic. It’s Crow’s way of showing Akira that he has the upper hand and always will, and Akira wants to hate it. Damn it, he really wants to hate it.

But he comes out of the shadows and smiles in response.

“Maybe you’re not something I _can _quit,” he taunts.

“Ah, you’re a coward, I see. You won’t even try.”

“Why would I?” Akira walks forward and grips the sides of Crow’s mask. He could take it off with enough force, but he doesn’t, he just holds it and stares through the slit into what he assumes are Crow’s eyes. “When I get to do this dance with you all the time?”

“This isn’t a game, Akira.”

“Oh, but if it was, I’d be winning. Since you can’t get enough of me. You’re always there, swooping in to save my ass. Anyone would think you _liked _playing the knight in shining armour.”

“Perhaps I can’t help it when you’re a pathetic damsel in distress.”

“You _wound me, _Crow.”

“Not as bad as you’d have been wounded if I wasn’t there when you got attacked.”

“You really know how to kill the mood,” Akira sighs.

“There was a mood?”

“I could unmask you right now.”

“Then why aren’t you?”

“Maybe I’m enjoying this.”

“You’d be out of your mind to. This is a job. This isn’t one of your little comic book fantasies, this is real life.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And it’s dangerous!”

“I like that.”

“You’re exhausting,” Crow says, “will you let go of my mask now?”

“Only if you swear you’ll see me again.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then I pull it off and call the cops.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Is that a risk you want to be taking?” Akira runs his fingers down the mask, and he _swears _that he can feel Crow shudder even though there’s no skin-on-skin contact. 

“Tomorrow night. 8pm. Here. I won’t wait around for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter was late! I was in New Zealand visiting my girlfriend so I wrote and posted this on the final flight back to the UK :( Hope you enjoyed, and please comment!


	8. ose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akira wants to know more about Crow, but before he can do that, he has to stop himself before a choice must be made.

Akira is no stranger to going days without sleep. Especially now, it just seems _ridiculous _for him to even try it; he’s waiting for the morning, and then he’ll be waiting for the evening, and even though everything has changed so deeply, he’s still a liminal being, torn between the anxiety of waiting for his life to begin whilst being terrified that it’s already over.

When sunrise comes, he’s already ready for work. Bored, he has nothing else to do other than boot up his laptop and let his inspiration start flowing already. Before he can forget, he pops one of his pills out of the blister-pack on his desk, noting that he’s been neglecting his antidepressants for a few days; he dry-swallows with his eyes shut, and gets to work.

The Pinterest board he made for Joker has been idly open in a tab since the moment of its creation, and Akira adds to it whenever he has spare time. Now, though, he wants to do something different, and his heart knows more than his mind does. Actually, it’s like his heart _is _the centre of his soul, where all the synapses and memories and intelligence reside; brains are too logical, but the heart is where love comes from, and isn’t that what everything is all for?

Ah, so he’s _that _kind of hopeless romantic. A lover without a love.

_[Crow](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/kurusu_akira/crow/). _That’s what his hands type out. But he tells himself that it’s just a word, not an answer to a question that he keeps asking himself.

By the time he gets to work, he feels for the first time in the past year that Joker isn’t the most important thing on his mind. Instead of seeing the heartbreakingly fake Phantom Thief everywhere, he sees Crow, huddled behind buildings, sitting on fire escapes with his long legs swinging and his hand resting under his chin, in such _close proximity _with Akira that he can almost look into his eyes and see what’s underneath the mask, who this man is, what Akira would call him after a long day or under the bedsheets in the early mornings or-

“Ah, hello Akechi,” Akira says, startled out of his daydream by Akechi sitting next to him at the desk.

“Kurusu,” Goro replies, his voice quiet and soft, like he has a cold, “good morning. May I ask you a question?”

“Go on.”

“Who is _Crow?”_

“What?”

“I saw this morning that you’d created a new Pinterest board with that title. I looked through it and I really like your idea so far. Is he some kind of villain?”

“N-No! I mean… he’s from… a different story. Sorry. I must have forgotten to make it private.”

“In that case, it’s me who should be apologising. I didn’t realise that I was intruding on your personal life. Please know that just because we’re coworkers, I don’t feel entitled to know about all of your creations, just the ones that you’re willing to share with me.”

“Well… thanks, I guess,” Akira says. He takes his glasses off to clean them, and smiles for a moment when everything becomes blurry.

There’s something about Goro Akechi.

Akira doesn’t know what, but god damn, there’s definitely _something_ about the way Akechi brings him coffee when he gets himself one, the way he hums a little whilst he draws, the way he asks for Akira’s approval a little more than necessary about his sketches. And when Akira’s flyaway hair gets in his eyes, Akechi wordlessly offers him a hair tie from his own wrist.

Lunchtime rolls around, and Akechi stands up. “I brought some takeout karaage that I bought last night and didn’t have time to eat. I’m going to heat it up - would you like some?”

“Oh. Yes, thank you,” Akira says, waiting until Akechi walks away before he starts smiling.

They eat together at their shared desk, and it’s just a _nice _experience, even though Akira is unsure of what he’s supposed to think. After all, he’s still got Crow on his mind, but he wants Akechi too - he loves the reckless mystery of his Phantom Thief saviour, but does he want it out of love or curious self-destruction? With Akechi, it’s… different. He feels like home, even if he is guarded and overly polite. It’s not that Akira wants a balance between them both, he wants them separately and completely as they are, he just doesn’t want to choose one or the other.

As the end of the day approaches, Akechi turns to Akira and, with a pleasant smile, asks him if he’d like to get dinner once they leave work. And he wants to say yes - he really, _really _wants to say yes, but if he misses out on tonight then he might never get chance to see who Crow is and what this is all really about. So he has to decline, and Akechi takes it well; he actually seems _satisfied, _which makes Akira wonder why he even asked in the first place.

Why did it feel so much like Akechi was giving him a different choice than just dinner?

He’s packing up his bag to leave when his boss calls him into his office. Akechi waves goodbye as Akira, slightly worried, walks away from the direction of the door and towards his boss, his anxious mind turning over all the possibilities of a meeting. Worst of all is the worry that Joker will have been pulled from production.

“Akira,” his boss says, motioning for him to take a seat, “I have good news.”

“Oh?”

“It’s probably no secret by now that we need something big to rejuvenate our company. Money is tight, and we’ve been funding projects that have ended up shelved or guttered after one issue. I proposed Joker in a meeting recently, and I was contacted today by a generous benefactor who wants to sponsor you as a writer.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It’s your choice, of course, but if you gave me the green light on this, we could fast-track Joker into becoming the comic of the decade. You’d be working with a skilled team of artists and writers, all under your leadership.”

“What about Akechi?”

“Well, sadly, this is a one-person only contract. I’m sure we could find other work for him, but it wouldn’t be alongside Joker.”

“No.”

“At least think about it. I don’t expect your answer until the end of the week, anyway. But let me at least give you the information of our benefactor for your own research. This is the opportunity of a lifetime, and if you refuse it now, you won’t be able to take it later on.”

“Thank you,” Akira says, trying not to betray that he’s already made up his mind, “I’ll, uh, think about it.”

“You do that,” his boss says, handing him a business card with the name_ Ichiryusai Madarame _on the front, “and remember that this opportunity would have monetary benefit for both you and I.”

When Akira leaves the office, he feels conflicted. This is the validation he’s been seeking all along, but it doesn’t feel even remotely as good as he’d always fantasised - he’d have to give up even more control over Joker, and more than that, he’d have to give up _Akechi. _There’d be no more brainstorming sessions in Leblanc, no more watching him as he works, and it’s not something that Akira particularly wants to live without. This might be the first time he’s admitted it to himself, but he’s comfortable around Akechi now, comfortable enough, even, to feel like Joker is a shared project - he’s not begrudgingly nodding at Akechi’s art anymore, but actively wanting him to participate in the creation of his dream.

Damn it, maybe he should have gone for that dinner after all. Because instead of spending the few hours before 8pm getting ready for his - well, what do you call it? rendezvous? - with Crow, he pulls up Pinterest again, making sure this time it’s set to private.

_[Goro](https://www.pinterest.co.uk/kurusu_akira/goro/). _The intimacy of his first name. Just for Akira. Just this once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really hope you enjoy this; please comment if you do.
> 
> Akira Kurusu stop making Pinterest boards instead of talking about your feelings :o


	9. shiki-ouji

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Akira meets Crow.

He has time. At least, enough to style his hair into a loose ponytail and put a fresh shirt on, almost like he _is _getting ready for a date. There isn’t an etiquette for this, though; no guidebook to tell him how early he should arrive and what he should expect when he gets there. After all, he’s meeting up with a man whose name and face he doesn’t even know - there’s just something about him that makes Akira feel like he can trust him. Maybe having your life saved by a masked stranger does that to a person.

Either way, he finds himself going right back to the alleyway, even though his breath catches in his chest as he half-expects to see dead bodies on the floor when he rounds every corner. God, when did his life become like _this - _like he’s a background character in one of his own stories, the helpless damsel in curious distress who just keeps putting their neck on the line for the chance of feeling something? He checks his watch and sees that it’s already 8pm, and he still has a few more streets to cross, so he breaks into a run, feeling the wind against his face until he stops, breathing heavily. Looking up, he sees Crow sitting on the fire escape again, as casual as ever, tapping his foot against the air.

“You’re late,” Crow says.

“You said you wouldn’t wait for me,” Akira responds.

“Well, I came all this way. A five minute leeway wouldn’t hurt. Come up.”

“Up… there?” Akira gestures to the fire escape.

“No, up to the roof of the building, idiot. I need an escape route if any of Sh- I mean, any of those men come again.”

Akira starts to climb, not looking down. When he comes within reach of Crow, he feels Crow’s hand on his arm, steadying him as he takes the final few steps onto the roof. Sitting on the edge, with his feet swinging over the side, feeling _alive, _he looks at Crow next to him.

“Who are those men working for?” Akira asks.

“Like I said, I’m not getting you involved in all this.”

“Then why agree to meet with me?”

“Hm,” Crow says, putting his hand under his chin in an eerily familiar gesture, “I’m not sure, actually. Tell me about yourself.”

“About me?”

“Yes, about you.”

“Uh… okay, I guess?” Akira looks down at the ground below and wonders how many seconds would pass in midair if he were to fall. “I’m Akira-”

“I know that.”

“Right. Of course. Uh… I’m a writer, I’ve got a cat called Morgana, my favourite food is curry, and I pick locks in my spare time.”

“It sounds like you’re doing a forced introduction to a class you don’t want to be in. Why ask me here if you don’t want to talk?”

“I _do _want to talk. Just… about you.”

“Me?”

“Well, yeah,” Akira says, “I mean, you’re the interesting one.”

“And how do I know this isn’t some sort of interrogation?”

“Why would you save my life if you didn’t trust me?”

“Good question,” Crow says, “walk with me.”

He doesn’t even wait for Akira to say yes before standing up and crossing the roof to the other side. Momentarily, he disappears over the edge, and it almost looks like he’s jumped off, but Akira’s eyes focus in the darkness and he sees him on the roof of the next building, as if he flew there. Slowly, he walks over to the edge and looks down at the drop below. It’s not far between the buildings, but one misstep, one tiny, insignificant stumble in a world of people who can walk far better than he can, and he’d be just another casualty in this alleyway.

“Jump,” Crow says.

“I can’t.”

_“I _did.”

“You’ve had practice!”

“And there was a first time for me, too. But I’m not dead. Jump, Akira.”

“I…”

Crow turns around and starts to walk away. Akira feels the edge of the building with his foot, steadying himself as he gets as comfortable as he can be with the drop below; suddenly, subconsciously, he’s closing his eyes, taking a deep breath, and letting himself go.

The next physical sensation that he realises is the strong feeling of arms around him - opening his eyes, he sees Crow, steadying him up to his feet. He has to look behind him to confirm that he actually did it, he _jumped, _and now he’s ready to take on the next stage of whatever he’s trying to prove to himself.

“Congratulations,” Crow says, but there’s no hint of warmth in his voice, “now you’ve no reason to be scared.”

Akira smiles a little, looking around at the rooftop. There’s a table in the middle of it, and two chairs; noticing that Akira is looking at them, Crow walks over and pulls out a seat, beckoning Akira to come forwards and sit there. Once he does, Crow sits down himself, pulling a lighter out of his pocket and lighting a candle in the middle of the table, illuminating two covered plates of takeout sushi and a bottle of cheap red wine. “I don’t do things by halves, Akira,” Crow smirks, “and if you want to get to know me, you’ll have to impress me.”

“So you had this planned all along, huh?”

“Perhaps,” Crow takes a piece of sushi and puts it in his mouth, through the exposed part of his mask, then pours two generous glasses of wine, “so impress me, _Joker.”_

“When you say it like it’s an order, there’s no incentive.”

“Ah, I suppose you make a fair argument. Alright, then. If you tell me something about yourself, and it’s something I find interesting, I’ll let you ask me a question.”

“Wow,” Akira says, deadpan, taking a gulp of his wine, “I didn’t know first dates were so clinical.”

“Impress me, Akira.”

“Right. So, no pressure then. Okay…” Akira struggles. Thinking of something impressive about himself is harder than he’d initially expected. “I make the best curry in all of Tokyo.”

“Sure _sounds_ impressive,” Crow says, “but I’ll have to reserve judgement on that one until I’ve tried it. Next.”

“Uh… there’s a really rich donor who wants to sponsor the comic I’m writing.”

“Now we’re talking,” Crow leans forward, the candlelight illuminating the metal of his mask, “and who might this donor be?”

“Something… Madarame, I think,” Akira says. Although he can’t see beneath Crow’s mask, he swears that the tension between them rises. “I don’t think I’ll take it, though.”

Crow visibly relaxes. “Why? Surely it seems like a good deal to you, since you don’t know… well, anything.”

“I mean sure, it would be a good deal, but I’m not about that. It’s a deal for me only, not the guy I’m working with.”

“And?” Crow says, genuinely confused.

“He’s the only one I trust with drawing the art for my comic. Besides, he’s… really nice. I wouldn’t accept a contract that puts him out of work just because it would mean more money for me.”

“I didn’t even consider that you’d be the type of person to think that way. You’ve certainly… interested me there. I’m only fair, feel free to ask me something. Although I’ll warn you, I won’t reveal any personal details.”

“What did you mean that I don’t know anything?”

“Ah,” Crow says, taking a sip of his wine, “you’re perceptive. I like that about you, Akira. So I’ll be honest. When I heard the name _Madarame, _I knew exactly who you were talking about. He’s notorious in the underbelly of the art world for locking up-and-coming artists and writers into unfair contracts, leeching money off their work and funnelling it upwards in a scheme that only benefits the rich.”

“Funnelling it upwards to who?”

“Ah, it’s my turn to ask you something, now. That’s how this works, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.”

“How are you doing since last year? You know, the attack?”

“You remember that?”

“Obviously I do,” Crow says, “answer the question.”

“I’m… alright.”

“Answer it _truthfully.”_

Akira can’t see it, but he knows that Crow is losing patience quickly, and he needs to keep him engaged if he wants to find out more about him; if that means being honest, then maybe he’ll have to swallow his pride just this once. 

“Alright…” he says, “…not very well. But it’s no big deal. I’m carrying on, y’know, with writing and everything. I just don’t think recovery suits me all that much.”

Crow’s grip on his glass tightens to the point where Akira fears it’ll shatter in his hand. “Recovery isn’t a fucking dress, Akira,” he spits, “you can’t just wear it when it’s convenient or when you think you need to lie so people don’t worry about you.”

“Damn, sorry.”

“Yeah. Don’t.”

“Well, can I at least ask you something now?”

“No. Your last answer wasn’t interesting,” Crow says, tapping his chin, “just a bit pathetic. What’s your relationship with your parents like?”

“Who are you?” Akira retorts. “Why do you get to ask me whatever you want and I have to impress you before I even know the slightest bit about you?”

_“You_ asked me to come,” Crow says, nonchalantly.

“Yeah, and you _came! _So you obviously care, don’t you?”

“Maybe. Who knows? Certainly not me. You won’t get under my skin, _babe, _no matter how much you try. Perhaps you could have if we’d met a few years earlier, but I’m numb.” His voice is sarcastic, the pet-name slipping out from between his teeth, dripping in faux-apathy with a slick, patronising sheen.

“My parents are fine. Distant, but fine.”

“And?”

“Why do you care? Half the time it’s like you want me to do well, and the other half it’s like I’m just some toy for you to play with. Sorry, Crow, but I don’t need saving, and if you’re going to withhold information from me so you can keep me on some sort of leash, then I’m not having it. Goodbye.”

Akira stands up, still holding his glass of wine. He downs it in one; it doesn’t taste great, but he hopes that it at least looks impressive, and then he slams it down onto the table and turns to leave. Just as he puts one foot onto the fire escape - he won’t jump, he’s not a show-dog for Crow’s entertainment - he hears a voice behind him; silently, Crow has risen from his seat and is standing so close that Akira can practically feel his breath on his neck.

“Stick to that fire you just showed me. Don’t take the sponsor.”

By the time Akira turns around, Crow is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait again, I hope you enjoyed! Please comment if you can ^w^


	10. archangel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crow tells Akira something.

He spends the rest of the night thinking. Not planning, not understanding, just… thinking. Maybe even waiting for something that resembles an explanation, but he’s just left pathetically starstruck, staring out of his window and trying to realise why Crow feels so familiar. But nothing comes, and he just passes another night without sleep, forcing himself at 6am to drag his weary body away from the window and get ready for work.

It’s strange, but Crow isn’t the only person on his mind. He’s thinking about this _Madarame, _whoever he is, but more-so than that, he’s thinking about Akechi. About how he was never going to take that damn contract anyway, not if it means sacrificing Joker again; he’s finally gotten comfortable around an artist whom he’s now willing to work with, and that’s not a gruelling process he particularly wants to perform again. Pulling his binder over his head and sighing at his unkempt appearance in the mirror, he realises just how _tired _he looks. Dark circles around his eyes, his shirt evidently un-ironed, hands constantly shaking from either stress, anxiety, or lack of caffeine. He lives in a damn café and still can’t quite quell the need for coffee to get him through the day.

Just as he’s packing his laptop away in his bag, he hears the window behind him open. He doesn’t live on the bottom floor, and his overactive imagination floods with childhood horror stories of tall men who peer through windows high off the ground, blank faces twisting into sallow smiles; if the one place that’s supposed to be safe - _home - _becomes overtaken by abject terror, then what else can the helpless protagonist do other than run? Not him. He’s not helpless - or, at least, he doesn’t _want _to be. So he turns around, fists clenched at his sides.

Really, he’s only seen Crow a few times. The simple sight of him should absolutely _not _be enough to calm him down, but he can’t help it; seeing that mask, imagining the cocky smile underneath, he softens and rolls his eyes.

“Really? Breaking into my bedroom? How… _intimate,” _Akira taunts.

“This is hardly an illicit rendezvous. I have information and that’s it,” Crow says.

“Damn,” Akira continues, walking over and lying down on his bed so that Crow is forced to peer through the window and look down on him. He’s convincing himself that this is just an elaborate way of getting under Crow’s skin, not that he’s actually _enjoying _sarcastically twirling his hair and smirking up at his masked vigilante. 

“You’re obnoxious. This might be a game to you, but not to me. And it’s about Akechi.”

Akira bolts up, his face dead-serious. He kneels on his bed and pushes himself up to the window, gripping the ledge with white knuckles and staring at Crow so hard that he almost begins to see him dematerialise with a film of too-hard concentration around his edges. “What?”

“Don’t trust him.”

_“What?”_

“You can’t trust Goro Akechi.”

“I can’t trust him, or are you asking me not to trust him?” Akira says.

“Pick one. Either way, he’ll give you a reason soon enough.”

“How do you- I mean… what makes you so-” Akira doesn’t know what he’s trying to ask. Crow propels himself upwards, using Akira’s window ledge as a footrest, and he’s long gone onto the rooftops before Akira can even shout after him.

Damn Crow. _Fuck _him! Who is he to have any say in the relationships that Akira forms with his coworkers? 

He’s still angry by the time he gets into work, marching straight into his boss’ office without knocking; quickly, he composes himself and knocks on the already open door.

“Akira,” his boss says, “you’re in early. Did you think over my proposition?”

“I did. And… no. Sorry, it’s not for me.”

“Did you _really _think about it? It’s the deal of a lifetime for both of us. Just imagine how much money-”

“I said no,” Akira says.

“But are you really sure?”

“Yes. It’s my choice, right? Then I can choose not to accept it.”

“I mean… I suppose. I’m only thinking of you. I just want you to be sure that you’re not making a mistake.”

“I’m sure. Thank you,” Akira says, and the sarcasm he tries to bite down makes his gratitude seem like it should be accompanied by a false bow. Closing the door behind him as he leaves, he sees Akechi waiting for him at their shared desk, and he tries to push aside what Crow told him earlier this morning. For god’s sake, this is _Akechi _he’s talking about. He wears cardigans. He takes his coffee with too much sugar. He’s harmless, Akira is at least ninety percent sure of it.

“Hey,” he says to Akechi, “you okay?”

“Yes, thank you. How are you?”

“Oh, you know, alright. Did you hear about that contract thing?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t.”

“Yeah, some sponsor or something wanted to put money behind Joker.”

“That’s amazing,” Akechi says, smiling and closing his eyes pleasantly, “congratulations.”

“Nah, seemed too good to be true. I’m not taking it. Plus, working in some big drawing room with tons of people who don’t actually care about the story isn’t the vision I had when I thought of this. I wanna keep it as just… our thing.”

“Our thing? Kurusu, Joker is _yours.”_

“Not any more. Give yourself credit, you’ve brought it to life just as much as I have.”

“Well… thank you. I appreciate that a lot.”

Their regular routine of working in tandem is easier to settle into the more time they spend together, and Akira never gets any less enjoyment from leaning over and looking at Akechi’s sketches to give him more inspiration. It’s how they pass the next few hours, until lunchtime, when they eat together like they’ve gotten used to doing recently. They’re talking about something irrelevant, something stupid (but Akira loves the way Akechi lightly laughs like music), when they’re interrupted by their boss coming over and putting his hand firmly onto the desk.

“Akechi, you have an appointment.”

For a moment, Akira thinks he can see something that looks like fear on Akechi’s face, but he blinks it away quicker than Akira can actualise it, and then he’s giving a closed lip smile again, excusing himself, and he’s gone. Once his boss walks back to his office, Akira grabs his coat and leaves, too. Everyone is too engrossed in their work or their distractions to watch him go, and as he leaves the building, he feels for the first time in a few years that he misses smoking despite having quit in his early twenties. He doesn’t see Akechi out front, but he uses what he’s learned from Crow to stay hidden in the shadows, waiting for confirmation that something is wrong - his gut feelings are usually right, even if he’s gotten far too into the bad habit of ignoring them. A few minutes pass, and in the alleyway next to the office building, he hears the distinct sound of an engine turning on, and he barely has time to find a good viewing spot before the car door opens, and Akechi gets out, looking shaken and a little disoriented. The door slams shut, and the large black SUV reverses out of the alleyway and rejoins the traffic, gone before Akira can even think to remember the numberplate.

Akechi steadies himself against the alleyway wall, still unaware that he’s being watched. He runs his gloved hand over his cheek, stopping by his throat and massaging it a little - his lips are pursed, and he looks shaken. Taking a moment to breathe, he straightens out his back and starts to walk back towards the office; Akira is so caught up in trying to comprehend what the hell is going on that he forgets he’s supposed to be hidden, and Akechi walks right past him, barely noticing him at first but then turning around and looking him dead in the eyes.

“Ah,” Akechi says, “hello.”

“What _was _that?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t concern you.” Akechi’s voice is cold, bitter, and yet it still feels like just another mask he’s wearing. It’s a far cry from the warmth of their curry date and the closeness in which they work; whatever has happened, either it has shaken him to the point of stoicism, or he simply doesn’t have the energy to put on that particular front anymore. 

And, more than that, Akira can’t throw the feeling that everything is connected. The SUV looks just like the ones from the other night, and the fact that this happened outside the office, the place where all the threads seem to converge, makes him question what role Akechi has to play in all this. He’s just a coworker. He shouldn’t be forced into involvement because Akira doesn’t know when to let go of excitement.

“No, this matters,” Akira says, resolutely. When he looks at Akechi, trying to discern his emotions, he sees the redness on his cheek, just under his eye; it’s not the kind of redness that comes with the cold air. “Come to Leblanc.”

“We still have an hour left of work.”

“I think we’ve both put in enough overtime for that not to matter. Besides, it wasn’t a question.”

“Alright,” Akechi says, with a glare, “but I’ll warn you, stop looking for things where there are none. Just because you’re a writer doesn’t mean that real life is anything other than boring.”

Akira frowns. Akechi isn’t an _idiot. _Wilfully ignorant at best, but he can’t truly believe that Akira will fall for his ‘everything is fine’ lie, which leaves only one other option. A wild option fresh out of a story, not something that actually happens. But it _is _there; a possibility.

The possibility that Akechi is playing dumb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the wait, again. I had to force myself to write this today because I felt bad for leaving you guys waiting (if anyone is still going to read this after me waiting weeks to update, haha). Writer's block has been pretty tough recently, and I'm having to push through it for uni, so I'm hoping I can get inspired again soon enough and get back on track with this.
> 
> I hope you liked this, anyway! Please comment if you did ^w^


	11. loki

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come out.

“Forgive my intrusion,” Akechi says as he follows Akira into Leblanc. It’s a little bit pathetic, really, that he thinks he can slip back into his princely pretence without it being questioned. Akira throws his bag down; they’re alone in the café, he made sure of it - Sojiro is quite routine in the days he takes Futaba to Akihabara.

He also notices, and then can’t _stop _noticing, that Akechi is still rubbing his cheek. Some awkward part of him wants to comment ‘missed a spot’ to lighten the mood, but he doesn’t think a badly-timed joke would be appropriate, nor would it go down well with Akechi, although it might coax out a little of that coldblooded, curt anger he witnessed earlier.

“So,” Akira says, sitting down in one of the booths, waiting for Akechi to sit opposite him, “what’s going on?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Kurusu. Nor do I think that I am in any way obligated to answer prying questions about my private life, if that’s the direction you were thinking of taking this.”

Akira looks at him, intimately mapping his face with his eyes. He’d like to see some of Akechi’s self portraits, sometime. Seeing that he has to try a different route, he takes the chessboard off the shelf and sets up a game. “White moves first,” he nods to Akechi, who calmly moves one of his pawns forward.

After a few of his own pawns have been taken, Akira takes up the offensive and moves his knight to take Akechi’s rook - a simple mistake for Akechi to have made if he were distracted. Which he is. And sure, Akira wanted to use chess as a strategy for getting Akechi to open up, but he can’t find the words for it right now, and when the game ends in a particularly unsatisfying stalemate, he sighs and turns on the TV.

There’s some politician on screen, promising things that any un-brainwashed person would understand are complete lies. Lately, the whole world seems to be overrun with corrupt politicians and shady dealings, but maybe that’s how things have always been, and Akira has only recently awakened into an understanding how unfair it all is. He doesn’t even want to watch, but before he can reach for the remote to turn it off, he sees that Akechi has taken it, and is turning the volume up.

“What, don’t tell me you support a guy like that?” Akira says. “He’s so… sinister.”

“No,” Akechi responds, sharply, “I don’t.”

“Then why are you watching?”

“You really… you really don’t know a thing, do you, Kurusu?”

Akira raises his eyebrow.

“Do you have somewhere private we can talk?” Akechi continues.

“Uh, yeah, there’s my bedroom upstairs - it’s a bit messy, but-”

“It’ll do. Lock the door before we go upstairs.”

Akira obeys this command without hesitation, then leads Akechi up the stairs to the attic. He’s half expecting to see Crow standing in his bedroom, and for once, he hopes _not _to see the mysterious Phantom Thief, because the whole thing might just scare Akechi away. And he wants to know, more than anything, where all of this connects and why it seems like he and Akechi are tangled in the middle of the red strings on some detective’s investigation board.

He sits on the mattress, and Akechi joins him.

“I’m only going to say this once,” Akechi says, “so if you interrupt me, or don’t listen, you’ve lost your shot at the truth, okay?”

Akira nods.

“I’m not a good person.”

The temptation to interrupt is great, and it almost seems like Akechi is daring him to say something so that he can stop talking, but Akira stands his ground and remains silent.

“I didn’t apply for the job I have now like any regular artist. I was thrust into it for someone else’s ulterior motive. It’s a long chain of awful people, and I’m right at the bottom of it. You see… the man I work for is influential and could rise to become Prime Minister soon enough; yes, I can see you’ve figured it out. I work - or, I suppose, _worked - _for Masayoshi Shido. Telling you any of this is as good as voiding the contract that I don’t have.”

Akechi smooths out his trousers and maintains a sense of calmness on his face, although his eyes betray him. “The Madarame contract that you were offered was a scam. He’s some big name artist who spends his oh-so-generous retirement locking young writers and artists into unfair contracts. The money he leeches off them goes all the way upwards to the worthless scum of a career politician himself. _I _was sent in to, sort of, well… I guess, scout you out for potential? You can talk now, by the way. That’s all I have to say.”

Akira says nothing. He can’t begin to put together what he’s feeling about what he just heard, that Akechi - _his Akechi - _was working against him this whole time. But there’s more than that, there’s the whole business with Crow, and if Akechi was so dead-set on getting him to sign that contract, why didn’t he get more involved?

“Actually, please say something,” Akechi says, “you’re scary when you’re all zoned out like that.”

“It’s just… weird. To hear all this, I mean. And from you… you don’t seem like… I mean you’re _not _a bad person.”

“Oh, _please,” _Akechi spits, “don’t lie to me now. The only reason I told you is because you’d pry otherwise, and it’s best that you hear the truth from me instead of piecing together lies and creating a false image of what’s going on. No doubt my boss won’t let me continue working with you, so I suppose this is the last time we’ll see each other. Don’t come looking for me, and don’t romanticise me into someone any better than I am.”

“Akechi…”

It’s no use. Akechi turns and leaves, and Akira can’t bring himself to follow him. Things still don’t add up, but he could hear the sincerity in Akechi’s voice and he knows, as much as it hurts, that everything he just said was true. It might not be the _whole truth, _but the fact of Akechi’s betrayal is still there, and it hurts more than he’d like to admit. He feels numb. Powerless. It’s not so much the possibility that he was being manipulated, but by Akechi of all people - the same person who shared curry with him and who made him laugh when nothing else really could. And all of that can’t be fake. 

Yeah. None of it was fake. Akira _sees _Akechi, sees someone like himself, someone scared and hurt and desperately trying to cut their own puppet-strings and be free; and he can’t blame him. Blaming him would be no different to a mute acceptance of the way things ‘should be’ in society, and if he’s going to be Joker - if he’s going to make Crow proud - then he has to rebel against the surface level status quo.

And then it clicks.

He doesn’t even grab his coat before he rushes out of Leblanc and down the backstreets. The sun is just starting to set, but he’s sure it’s nighttime enough for the person he wants to meet. He starts yelling Crow’s name, wildly and recklessly, until he’s standing on their rooftop screaming at the darkening sky.

“Wow, someone’s interested,” Crow’s cocky voice comes from behind him, “are you here to tell me I was right? Did Goro Akechi betray you?”

“I know who you are.”

“You think you know me, but you don’t.”

Akira turns around. Softly, he lifts his hands up to Crow’s mask, and he’s surprised to see that Crow doesn’t stop him.

“Are you sure?” Crow says. “You can’t take this back. We’ll be going from the before into the after.”

Akira closes his eyes and nods. He keeps them closed while he lifts up the mask, and feels Crow’s face with his fingertips before opening them.

_“Goro,” _he breathes.

“Sorry to disappoint.”

“Shut up,” Akira says, holding Akechi’s face in his palm, “I knew it. I knew you were a good person.”

“How did you figure me out?”

“That night, when I was mugged. That was when it all started.”

“Do you regret meeting me?” Akechi asks.

“Do you regret getting involved?” Akira counters.

“Never.”

“It wasn’t a normal mugging, was it?”

“No. They didn’t care about your phone, or your wallet. It was your notebook they wanted, and that’s when they pinpointed you as someone they could manipulate into taking Madarame’s contract. Or, rather, that’s when they thought they’d send _me_ in to manipulate you.”

“But they don’t know you’re Crow? You’re… double crossing them?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you just _tell me that _instead of going through that whole ‘I’m a bad person’ thing earlier?”

“Because Crow and Akechi are different people. I didn’t want to tarnish the image of one with the reputation of the other. Besides, you seemed to really like me as Crow.”

“I really like you as Akechi, too.”

“Well, I suppose the jig is up now. There’s no way Shido will let me stay on working with you after my intentional failure at getting you into that contract.”

“You’re a Phantom Thief. Can’t you just expose him as a fraud and ruin his election chances?”

“It isn’t that simple, Akira.”

“Tell me,” Akira whispers, guiding Akechi to the edge of the rooftop and sitting there, his legs swinging over the edge. Akechi joins him, and in the quick darkness, his hand lays atop Akira’s. He’s shaking.

“I had this whole long term plan. I wanted to ruin him. Help him get to the height of power and then release all the dirt I have on him and destroy his life. Just like he destroyed mine.”

“He… did what?”

Akechi closes his eyes and purses his lips. His grip on Akira’s hand gets tighter, and he takes a deep breath before speaking. “He’s my father.”

“He’s _what?”_

“He destroyed my mother’s life and left her for dead. I was passed around orphanages in the shame of being an unwanted child, all whilst he was gaining power and traction in the political world. It was all me - _I _approached him and offered my help with campaign funds. I put myself in that situation because all I’ve ever wanted is revenge. And then _you _came along and god damn it, I should hate you for getting in my way but… I don’t think I do.”

“I’m glad you don’t.”

“Can we just sit here for a bit? Things have changed and I’d like to watch the stars come out,” Akechi whispers, his hand still laced in Akira’s, his breath soft and cold against the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took so long. Writer's block and motivation issues really showtimed me, so I know this chapter isn't much good. Still, it's out there, and the next one will be the last one. If you're still reading this fic, thanks for sticking with me, and I hope you enjoy this as much as you can ^w^

**Author's Note:**

> Please comment if you like this so far!


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